Harry: King of Roses
by Kataranara
Summary: Young Henry VIII was a spirited and intense man whose young life comes alive in this revealing first person account. Henry's vast knowledge of religion, politics, war, history, and philosophy do not prepare him for the unfortunate, and historical, events of his young life. He has to traverse love, politics, survival, and his very soul in this biographical adventure through history.
1. February 21, 1497

February 21, 1497

Eltham Palace, Greenwich England

I remember the cold winter day, the frost on the windows and thick dunes of snow and ice in the expansive yard and garden outside the window. I was sitting in my chair, practicing my Latin when there was a small rap on the wooden door leading into my prescience chamber.

"Come," I bid, setting the book on the table and turning to the door.

"Your highness," came the voice of my familiar household servant as he entered, the boy only five years older than I. I, being merely 5, still commanded my own household and lived under the protection of my father, Henry VII of England. He crossed the room, bowed low, and handed me a letter. "You have a visitor your highness."

"Who?" I asked, eyeing the seal on the folded letter. It was from my mother.

"Your lady grandmother, Margaret Stanley," he replied, standing at attention.

"Well don't stand there," I snapped, setting the letter down and standing quickly with a soft thud.

"She has just arrived," he admitted, bowing again. "I will escort her to you."

I nodded, waving my hand and he left the room quickly, shutting the door behind him. I turned to the letter on the desk now and broke the seal. Luckily, it was a short letter for I could not imagine my grandmother standing idly by while I read.

 _My dearest Harry,_

 _I am pleased to tell you that after this long winter, your father has agreed that I and my household will be journeying to you next month to stay the spring at the royal nursery. I have missed you so much, my little rose, that I long to hug you and hold you. I do hope you and Margaret are getting along and I long to have you all in my arms. I will see you in a few short weeks my loving boy._

 _Your lady mother,_

 _Elizabeth R._

I read over the letter once more before I heard footsteps in the hall outside my chamber. I quickly folded the letter, set it down on my desk and began to straighten my tunic and sleeves. There was a knock at the door and I stood to attention, beckoning for them to enter. The page boy came back in, bowed low, and announced my grandmother's prescience.

"The Queen Mother, Lady Margaret Stanley," he announced and stepped aside. She strode into the room, much as she as always done, with a sense of ownership and regality that she was known for. She curtseyed slightly, lowered her head, and I strode to her, kneeling for her blessing.

"Lady grandmother," I whispered, feeling her wrinkling and delicate hands on my soft copper hair. "I ask for your blessing."

"And I give it freely, my holy prince," she replies, her voice somewhat shrill but commanding.

I stood now, taking her hand in mine and offering her a seat on the plush bench before the small rounded table. She nodded and in one elegant movement she sat down, looking at my face intently.

"Henry," she started and I knew right away this was to be a serious talk. You could always tell with grandmother. She began with our names and that stern but seemingly understanding voice. This used to reassure me but over time I had grown to understand that there was only one way; hers. "I must speak to you of your duty, or your future. Please, I bid you sit."

I only nodded and moved to perch on the cushion next to her. She smiled softly, her wrinkles more pronounced. Her hand gently went to my short straight hair and she brushed it over my forehead, still grinning. "You look so much like your father," she nods, her eyes becoming somewhat misted. "I never got to raise him, did you know that?"

"I do," I nod. "He was raised by his uncle Jasper Tudor in Wales and Brittany."

"Yes my darling," she sighed, her fingers lightly playing with my bangs. "You remind me of him in so many ways."

"I hope to mirror his example," I nod, touching her other hand that is on her lap. "I strive to do God's work."

"You're a blessing," she cooed, kissing my forehead and taking my hands in hers. "And that work is exactly why I come here my boy." She gently squeezes my hands. "Firstly, are you aware of your duty as the Duke of York, brother to the future king?"

"I am to support my brother with my lands and holdings and to take up the robes of Holy Mother Church to become Archbishop of Canterbury in order to help stabilize the Tudor dynasty," I replied automatically, having rehearsed it since I was old enough to read, which was just before my fourth birthday.

"Exactly, so you know the importance of your role in this kingdom, your kingdom?" she asks, her eyes searching my face diligently.

"I understand that the two most powerful men in the kingdom are the King and the Archbishop. If both were a Tudor," I pause, unsure how to word it. "Power would remain in our family."

"In a word," she nods. "But it is much more than that. God had called me to birth the king and he blessed our family with the monarchy of England. It is because of him that we are here, in this position of great power." She looks about. "Page," she says to the boy who stands next to the door. "Bring us some warm wine." The page simply bows and leaves the room quickly. My grandmother looks down at me now and in a low voice continues.

"You must always honor God, in all your duties for if you do not, he may revoke his blessing and favor," she whispers. "Power is a fragile thing. Your father knows this and has taught Arthur but you must understand as well. It is not always guaranteed." She lets go of my hands and looks somewhat downcast. "There has been a horrible uprising in Florence that has left the ruling family scattered and the city under siege. This current predicament, no matter how blasphemous and sinful, is a lesson. The zealots are led by a Franciscan friar named Savonarola who, as of only a few weeks ago, gathered all the fine arts, holy books, and so-called vanities to be burned in the city square. The pyre raged for hours and so many people have been bullied into silent obedience by this unholy man."

My eyes were wide as she continued, the horror setting in. How these obscure and crazed heretics could burn beautiful paintings, holy books, precious literature, and scientific research as well as call the Pope a tyrannical devil and not answer for it. They'd called him a messenger of Satan and every other vile thing. My grandmother only whispered these things hesitantly and at one point was so enraged the color in her sallow gray cheeks bloomed.

"Understand, Henry, that you must always keep a fair balance with God and his herd for if you are not a dutiful shepherd, horror can befall the kingdom," she whispered as footsteps echoed in the hall outside. The page came back in with a tray, two goblets, a pitcher, and a tray of warm pastries that steamed in the cool room. He set them down on the table before us, poured our drinks, bowed, and left the room again.

"I feel torn," I admit, taking a soft warm pastry in my hand. "He speaks against the Pope and overthrows his sovereign which is a grave sin but is it not equal to burn such important discoveries and works of art? Is it not just as blasphemous?"

"No, my boy," she says, lifting the steaming goblet to her thin lips. She sips it and looks down at me. "His unholy defiance of Rome and the overthrowing of the Medici has spurred instability and chaos. The burning of such trinkets as paintings and books is nothing in the eyes of God. Some of it was, no doubt, sinful anyway."

"I disagree," I reply quickly, setting down the remaining pastry and taking a sip of the wine. It made my nose wrinkle but at least it was warm. "Such discoveries, such beautiful works, are surely given to us by God. Everything on this earth is given by God so such destruction is certainly displeasing to him."

"Perhaps," she drawls, her lips touching the rim of the cup again. She takes a drink and sets it down. "But God is certainly more offended by this friar's attack on his holy church."

"So, the lesson is that you must always strive to please God by keeping faith with his flock?" I asked, unsure what my grandmother wanted me to take away from this lesson.

"You've only barely missed the mark," she corrects, looking to the frosty window. "Your role as the Archbishop is to keep your brother in charge of his flock by interpreting and performing God's will. You must always guide the people of England in their devotion to holy church."

"How is one man to attend to the entirety of England?" I asked, awed by the size of such a job.

"You will learn," she assures me, looking at the low burning fireplace. "It is a burden you must bear in the name of the royal house of Tudor. You, my child of plenty, did not see the brutality of the cousin's war. You did not know the fear of uncertainty. We will not plunge this realm back into such unholy madness."

"Father refuses to speak to me of the wars," I say, looking out the window now. "He never tells me anything."

"Do not sulk," she snaps, looking up at me. "You understand your position. Your brother is the heir and you are the spare, second born and destined for holy office. The king must personally oversee his heir's education and upbringing. Your smart and understand this all too well."

"Yes lady grandmother," I reply, looking back at the fire. I suddenly felt cold and my grandmother noticed, standing and lifting a fur robe from the opposite chair.

"Page!" she called and the door creaked open. "Stoke the fire and light some more candles. Tell my steward to ready my chamber with a fire and a warm stone for my bed. I will take mass with my grandson and retire for the night."

He simply bowed and went to his duties. She turned to me again and offered her hand. "Come, put on your cloak and we shall go to the chapel and pray for the people of Florence, our family, and of course for God's humble mercy."

That night, as the wind whistled through the frosted panes, I lie awake staring at the canopied bed of my chamber. I couldn't get the vision of a burning flame and unholy shadows out of my mind. I could not sleep for the longest time and as the clouds roamed over the pale moon, I could not thing of a more tragic waste of humanity. It pricked at my core and in my sleepless stupor I saw a flash of a drowning man, his head topped with a tight golden crown that seemed to weight him beneath the surface of the dark water.

He flailed and reached above the surface but no matter how he tried, he could not breech the dark waves. It was then that I lost consciousness, trapped somewhere between the darkness of sleep and the shadows of that flame. It disturbed me, the way the flames licked and scorched the beautiful paintings and pages upon pages of research and literature. The way a deformed and frightening shadow flickered across the flame with a menacing smoothness caused a sense of foreboding that woke me more than once that dreadful night.


	2. May 5, 1497

May 5, 1497

The Tower of London

Mother's visit did not go as planned. She had been with us for little over two weeks when a legion of guards came to our palace with my father's loyal servant, and step-father, Lord Stanley. He informed us that Cornish rebels has risen up against him and that they were gathering support from the counties surrounding London. Mother was wholly frightened, having spent much of her childhood in sanctuary with her siblings. He escorted us, our nanny, our tutor, and a small number of our household to the royal rooms in the tower. Margaret, who was barely older than I, complained of sharing a room with the small princess Mary. Mother, who assured her it would not last long, encouraged her that here she could enjoy one-on-one lessons from the Queen herself. Margaret had not spent longer than a few weeks with mother since our sister Mary was born.

"And what of Henry? He gets his own room?" she pouted, looking at her trunks of things being hauled to her and Mary's room.

"Henry is a boy," she pointed, a soft smile on her face. "And besides, Harry must attend to us all as the man of our small household."

"Don't complain Margaret," I scolded her, her eyes narrowing on me. "This isn't a holiday."

"He is right," came a familiar stern voice. It was my lady grandmother. She glided into the large chamber and placed a hand on Margaret's shoulder. "There is a rebellion and we, as the royal family, must remain steadfast and uncomplaining. I have prayed vigorously on our plight and I know that God will not fail us now."

"Praise be to God," my mother added, motioning for her maid to unpack her trunk. "I am glad to see you are here, Lady Mother. I take heart in your bravery and certainty."

"I will always be here for my family, my royal daughter," she smiled, crossing the room to mother and taking her shoulders and kissing her on the cheek. Mother stood almost a head taller than my grandmother and this scene was always fascinating. Margaret and I knew very well that my grandmother and mother tolerated one another. Mother had always been yielding to my grandmother, allowing her more of a say than I am sure she felt comfortable with. She always allowed grandmother the final say and in return, my mother gracefully performs her duties as the Queen of England. She was the first lady of the country and my grandmother always walked behind her.

"Come, let us enjoy lunch and then we shall go to the chapel," my grandmother insisted and Margaret let out a soft sigh which mother eyed her reproachfully for.

"Come, let us go," my mother confirmed, scooping up little Mary in her arms and leading the way from the room. My grandmother, with a knowing look to me, followed and I fell in next to her, leaving Margaret to groan and follow us.

For almost a month we are held up in the tower, patchy reports coming in through Lord Stanley about my father's progress with the rebels in Kent and Cornwall. We attend mass three times a day, eat rich but simple foods, and the tutor educates both Margaret and I in the history of our family lineage. Grandmother attends occasionally but mother is present every day.

"As you are away Queen Elizabeth of York is the daughter of Edward IV of the York branch of the Plantagenet line of Edward III. The King, Henry VII, is the descendant of Edward III's son John Gaunt and the house of Lancaster. The combination of these two branches of the Plantagenet line ended The War of the Roses, the name given to the cousin's war because of the emblems of their houses. Tell me, Henry, what were these emblems?"

"The white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster," I replied quickly, already covering this before the Christmas season.

"Correct. The bloody civil war lasted for an entire two generations, taking thousands of English lives. Tell me, Margaret, how was the fighting ended."

"With my father's victory at Bosworth," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

"And?" He asked, his eyes on her.

"By the agreement between former York Queen Elizabeth Woodville and Lady Margaret Beaufort of Lancaster. They outsmarted the villainous king Richard and bound my mother and father together in alliance to draw out support from both York and Lancaster forces for my father's battle," I piped exasperated by this history.

"Correct," the tutor only sighed, setting his book down. "Does this subject bore your highness?"

"I have already learned of this and find it tedious," I comment, looking toward the small glass window that overlooked the Thames. "Tell us of knights, troubadours, and battles. Tell us of the conquest of France."

"Not more military lessons," Margaret whined. "Can't I join my mother? Certainly she would rather teach me the finer points of dance or needlework?"

"You heard what she said," the tutor grinned. "You've been leaving lessons early almost every day in the guise of learning from your mother but she has informed me that all you do is refine your already mastered skills. You cannot, as a Tudor princess, be uneducated. It would be unseemly."

"But I am not some military leader or statesman," she sighed, slumping in her chair. "I am a princess and must know how to manage a household and such affairs are far from the duties of a knight."

"You're a Tudor," I growl, trying to shut her up. Even if she wasn't as flippant and spoiled she was still dim. "One day you may hold a crown of your own. Father has approached the idea of France, Spain, and Scotland. Think before you speak."

"I am no queen militant," she spat back, standing. "I will be a queen on her throne with her husband. I am no warrior and life, no matter what is written of it, is no romantic and whimsical story. Get your head out of the clouds Henry. Certainly there are more appropriate subjects we will both benefit from."

I was about to retort when the door of my chamber swung open and in walked my grandmother. Her face was paler than usual and her eyes darted as if she were unsure. "Children," she said, waving at the tutor. "Come, to the inner rooms of your mother's chamber. The rebels have breached the city and are sacking the rallying the citizens behind them. Your father is on the way but we must retire to the inner rooms."

I didn't need telling twice. I jumped up, striding past my grandmother who was trying to comfort an already tearful Margaret and up the stairs. I wound up two flights, through a hall, and into my mother's prescience chamber. She was already standing there, Mary in her arms, her eyes out the open window. I could hear banging and shouting voices rumbling in the distance.

"Mother," I said, coming across the room to her. "Let us retire to the inner rooms." Her eyes snapped down to me and with a solemn smile, she nodded. I lead the way through her prescience chamber, into her bedchamber, and to a small, narrow staircase leading up to the floor above. It was a small room, already prepared with three soft cots, a table, two benches, two chairs and a small but stoked fireplace. There was no window and the room became more cramped as my grandmother, our nanny, a maid, and Margaret entered.

I quickly took the chair closest to the fire, pulling a book from the small box near the foot of the cot, and opened it. My mother sat on the cot comfortably with Mary, the nanny perching herself close by on the patchwork of straw and linen that was her bed on the floor. My grandmother took the chair opposite of me and pulled out her small Bible from her pocket. Margaret didn't look pleased and ordered the maid to sit with her and play cards.

Mother, whose face was pleasant, hummed to Mary and watched over us but her slate blue eyes betrayed her worry. She'd lived through this before and the memories of her family's confinement must be swarming her mind. At that moment she looked up at me and I blushed slightly. She replied with a soft smile and a wink and I looked down at the pages of my book, reading long into the afternoon.

We stayed like this, confined to the interior chamber all day and night, the distant noise of guns, cannons, shouts, and horses echoed up to us from across the river. It was early in the morning when a loud bang and clattering shook us from our bed. The chamber was dark, the embers of the fire low. Before I could sit up properly in my bed my Grandmother, who slept in the same bed as Margaret, was over to my bedside, scooping me with uncanny strength into my mother's bed. My mother's arms went around me and Margaret slid in next to us, our arms around each other in huddled panic.

It could have been anyone. The rebels coming to take the heads of the royal family, looters and opportunists, or, as we all hoped, it was my father's forces to check on our welfare. We heard no familiar voice, not even the constable of the tower who watched over our wellbeing. I could feel my heart beat faster and faster, my breaths shallow as the noise became louder. We heard another slamming noise and then multiple footsteps in the prescience chamber below. The door to our hideaway, which was locked, would not restrain a band of soldiers or looters for long.

"No," my grandmother whispered, her arms around Margaret and my mother tightening. "This is not God's will, the end of the Tudor line."

There were footsteps coming through the bedchamber and then up the stairs. My mother's hand on my arm and on my grandmother's forearm tightened as the footsteps halted on the stairs. Then, as if it were a pleasant visit, a knock echoed on the door. My mother and grandmother exchanged looks and with the bravest of certainty, my mother handed Mary to my grandmother and stood from the cot, striding to the door.

"Who calls on the royal family so early in the day?" she demanded, halting as the door loomed over her.

"It is I," came the commanding but familiar voice from the other side of the door. "King Henry VII of the royal house Tudor. I demand entrance."

Before he could speak another word my mother unbolted the door and swung it open, the copper and gray haired king standing before his loving and obedient queen. She bowed lowly and then, before she could speak to him he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her lips gently. My grandmother rose from the cot, holding Mary in her arms and taking Margaret's hand. I stood, my eyes surprisingly stained with tears. I bowed low as my father turned to us in the dim light of the chamber. One of the soldiers, the familiar Lord Stanley, came into the room behind my father with a torch that made shadows dance on the wall.

My father slowly inspected each of us and then released my mother, strode over to my grandmother, and kneeled for her blessing.

"Lady mother," he said, smiling up at her with little Mary in her arms. "Knowing you were here protecting my family gave me strength and courage. It also warmed me to know that once again, God was on my side."

"You are blessed my son," she smiled, placing her free hand on his head. "And as is your family."

He rose slowly from his knee, looked over my sister Margaret and then his eyes fell on me. "Ah, young Henry," he said, his hand going to my shoulder. "I see you were ready to defend your family as well." His eyes were firmly on the small dagger on my belt which I had, unconsciously drawn when my mother had stridden toward the door.

"It is my duty as a Tudor," I replied, bowing low.

"Come," he offered, turning back to my mother. "I have defeated the rebels, restored London to order, and have brought the royal carriage to take my family home with me." He strode over to my mother's side, offered his arm and after ordering that our things are to follow and for us to be cloaked, he escorted us all down the winding set of stairs and into the courtyard.

The trip back to the palace of Greenwich was slow and along the way we could see burning fires, smoking pyres, and hear the clanking of the soldiers as they patrolled and calmed the masses of injured and lost. At one point, our carriage was stopped before a bridge where a cart had blocked the path. It was not long before my grandmother pulled the curtains over the windows. The cart, as I glimpsed, was laden with bleeding and battered corpses.

"The cost of war and rebellion," my grandmother offered, her hand going to my shoulder as she sat next to me. She then leaned down and whispered, as if our lesson those months ago had just concluded. "The cost of a wandering flock."


	3. August 1497

August 1497

Sheen Palace, London

"Majesty," my mother's voice drifted from her bedchamber where her and my father were speaking in low tones. Margaret, I, and Mary were all playing on the floor of her prescience chamber when my father entered. He greeted us all with a smile, remarked on our health and happiness, and asked my mother for a private word. She humbly accepted and when they entered her bedchamber, Margaret and I began our game. Only the nanny sat by as a she helped Mary to walk and play. I, with a smile from Margaret, move toward the door and pretend to be playing with my small soldier figurines. It is here that I listen and glean what information I can from their muffled conversation.

"My wife," my father says. "I have some disturbing news and an even more disturbing question to pose to you."

"I have heard the rumor," she replies softly and I can hear the worry in her voice. "What is the news, husband?"

"A man, by the name of Perkin Warbeck, is planning to sail from Flanders to England and proclaim himself king in the guise of your youngest brother Richard, Duke of York."

"And your question?" she asked, her voice hard.

"Is there any way that it is truly him, your brother?" There was a long silence and then I heard my father sigh. "Then, would you rob your own children of their inheritance?"

"Never," she quickly replied. "But I can neither confirm nor deny that he is my brother Richard."

"I will search the tower again," he replied in a rush, his boots echoing on the chamber floor as he paced. "I will find the truth."

"Husband," my mother said, her voice soft and kind. "My king, you are secure in your throne now, after this latest rebellion. If this man, Warbeck, is able to summon an army we will once again be in grave danger. Is it not wise to parley, perhaps pay him to go away?"

"And reward usurpers?!"

"Hush," she reminded, her voice becoming more quiet. "Would you ride out to battle, yet again?"

"If I must," he hissed. "How else can I secure Arthur's inheritance. He is safe in his estate in Wales but even though he is only 11 he is slight, sickly. We must take careful steps to assure he has a good marriage and an heir. I am thinking of rekindling our alliance with Spain."

"That would serve us well," my mother commented. "But what about Warbeck? We should approach him before he stirs more trouble."

"Would you be able to tell if it were your brother, Richard?"

"I have not seen him since he was a boy of seven," she replies and her voice trembles. There is another pause and then her voice is more steady. "But I think I would know him anywhere. You never forget those unjustly lost."

"Good," was all he said and I managed to scoot away from the door just in time as it swung open again, my father emerging with a smile on his face. "It is settled. We shall all dine together tonight." He walks over to Margaret, kneels down, and grins at her. "Would you like that, my princess?"

"More than anything my lord father," she nods, kissing his cheek.

Only two weeks later my father summoned my mother, from our nursery, to his chambers for a private meeting. I remember her sending a lady of her household back to us only an hour later to inform the nanny that she would come back to put us to bed but had pressing issues to deal with. I had told my sister Margaret all I heard and she, in true inheritance of my grandmother, scoffed at the idea of York lord usurping her, and my rights, as crowned monarchs. It was when the nanny informed us that I pulled Margaret aside, from her intricate needle work, to speak to her.

"Do you think this has anything to do with him?" I whispered, offering her the chair opposite me. We were sitting in the corner of the room, the small and the glimmering summer light coming through the window.

"Most likely," she replied, pretending to focus on her needlework again. "Grandmother has been on edge for the past few days. Apparently the usurper has landed and is marching with a small army of rebels."

"When were you told this?" I asked indignantly, my eyes wide.

"Just the other day when I had my lesson with grandmother," she nodded smugly. "She thought I ought to know."

"Yet no one speaks to me," I grumbled, looking out the window. "I am the prince, Duke of York and no one has told me."

"Oh, you're making a fuss," she teases, a smirk on her smug face. "Father has it well under control. That is probably why he summoned mother, to reassure her and to announce t."

"I think she plays a key role in father's plan," I offered, my eyes going back to her. "I think that this pretender is her most pressing issue. I think father needs her to-"

"And you base this on what?" she interrupted with an annoyed tone. "Surely father has more dispensable servants to deal with such a rabble."

"Mother knows what her brother looks like," I snapped a little too loudly. This made the nanny look over at us briefly before going back to playing with Mary.

"You just don't understand," Margaret coos, grinning at my little outburst. "If father were to parlay with this usurper or give any confirmation of weakness or doubt than he will have already lost. He cannot, under any circumstances, allow this pretender to spew lies or gain momentum. He must, as grandmother says, crush any doubt the people of England may have as to who their true and noble king is."

"But father asked mother if she would know her brother's face," I hissed back, the color rising in my cheeks. "Don't you see that over your long nose? I think mother will meet this pretender."

"Absurd," she spat. "You're so childish. She will not waste breath or effort on this idiotic commoner from the continent. She is too important of a lady and we, being royal children, are above it all. It is not our duty to fuss over the squabbles of the commoners. If this Warbeck comes anywhere near our family father will simply chop off his head."

"You're the child," I retorted, spitefully trying to have the last say. "You have no idea the duties we must fulfill nor the will of God who has put us Tudors on England's throne. Perhaps grandmother should reeducate you on our history."

"Just go back to your books Harry," she sneered, standing up gracefully. "Mother will not meet with a pretender nor know what her brother looks like now. Just stop fussing about it." And with a slight nod she moved away toward the soft and plush couch near the small fireplace to concentrate on her needlework. I knew better though; she was fantasizing over her royal destiny, being betrothed to a king like James of Scotland or Louis of France. She was a silly vain girl.

That night mother came to my bedchamber last, first tending to little Mary and scolding Margaret for her manners toward the young Duke of Buckingham. She sat in my room for near an hour and the conversation was enough to raise my suspicion. It was when she was done telling me of my favorite story, the story of her childhood of knights and battles, that she began to tuck the warm fur and linen around me.

"Before you leave," I said, smiling up at her. She was so beautiful, fair haired and round faced. She was a true queen. "What news of the usurper, the one named Warbeck?"

She paused only briefly, straightening on the edge of my bed and smiling softly down at me. "What has Margaret told you?"

"That he claims to be your brother, Richard Duke of York and claims to be king. He has landed here in England and has a small force with him. Are we going to have to go back to The Tower? What about father? Will he have to fight again? And what about us if father doesn't win?"

"Henry," she smiled, placing her hand on my shoulder and pressing me to my pillow. In my fervor my mind had raced and I'd come up out of my covers and off my pillow again. "Listen, this pretender is not my brother, the rabble is smaller than the Cornish rebellion, and your father is a firm commander. We are in good hands."

"You're sure? Our lady grandmother has assured us that it is God's will that we Tudors are on the throne. Is it true mother?"

"Calm yourself," she reassures and starts tucking me back under the warm linens. "We are fine, we will stay right here, together, and wait for news for your father's victory." She stands up now, a definitive strength in her eyes and in her poster as if to warn me to get up again. I sighed now, accepting defeat and she just smiled, blowing out the candle on the bedside and turning from the room.

The second the outer door of my prescience chamber thudded shut I moved from my bed, grabbed a small fur throw, and crept toward the door of the room. For only age six I was quite sneaky and could often maneuver down the elaborate and shaded halls and galleries during the night without detection. I pulled on the simple leather slippers near my trunk and opened the door with a soft creak. I quickly padded down the hall after my mother's clacking heels and saw her, as I hid around a corner, enter the gallery leading to her own wing. I knew the way well and crept behind her, always in shadow and always undetected. When she turned into the smaller chapel adjacent to she and my father's shared bedchamber I paused, wondering if she was worried.

Mother wasn't particularly religious but gracious and kind. She normally never attended sermons and mass unless it was expected of her. I quickly followed as she closed the door behind her and decided to slip into the chamber next to the small chapel that was used for shelving and storage. There were several wines stored here as part of father's private stock as well as his and mother's everyday goods such as extra linens, pillows, dishes, and the like. I knew of a hole in the wall, just large enough between the large bricks and through the plaster into the chapel.

I snuck behind the shelf and the stacks of baskets to hear my mother's voice echoing through the small hole in the corner. I huddled up to it and diligently tried to imprint everything in my memory.

"Thank you Sir McNeil," her voice softly rang. She was carefully speaking quiet and I couldn't understand who was in the room with her. "My brother," she says even more softly and my mind starts racing. "I had not thought to ever see you again. The last time I did was when mother died. You said you needed to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to seek God's will. You said you were lost in this world and didn't know what to do. Why, in the name of God, did you come back to England? Why now?"

"Sister please," he begged, his voice breaking with emotion but strong and deep. "I have traveled a long way, seen both The Holy Land and Rome and I tell you, it is time to take England. I have had a vision."

There was a long silence and then, as if her breath had been stolen, she whispered back to him. "Like mother? Like our ancestors?"

"You know of what I speak," he replied certainly. "It is my job to assure England's obedience to God before profit or glory."

"You sound like my mother-in-law," she hissed, her heal clacking on the stone floor. "God's plans, great plans, well what about my plans? What about my children?"

"You know that I will not harm them, sister," he replied quickly and she sighed. There was a prolonged silence and then I heard my mother sob, her voice shaken as she cried.

"Why have you come now? Why not sooner?" she cried. "I cannot put my children's future's in the balance as mother did. I cannot endanger my husband." She sobbed harder and then, in her softest voice I heard to whisper to him in a gasp. "I love him."

"Sister, I am not here to endanger your children," he whispered back, his voice firm. "I am here to see you, to express my love, and to try, if it is God's will, to win back my brother's throne."

"You gamble with lives!" she hissed back, her voice burning with anger. "How can you do this? How can you claim that the slaughter of civil war is God's plan?"

"My sister," he replied. "Like our ancestors before, I am blessed with the vision of the mother goddess and it is my wish to bring peace and prosperity back to our once great land. To fulfill God's vision for our family, for me."

The silence was long, heavy, and it seemed as if I could see my mother contemplating his words. At first I was frightened but I saw her eyes were dark and deep, considering every word, every outcome. It was as if I were in the room and I could almost feel the heavy weight of the decision she had to make.

"Sister, I ask for no favor only your prescience and love," my uncle Richard assured, his hands holding hers. "I just wanted to speak to you, tell you why I was doing all of this. Other than that, I just want to see the loving face of my older, beautiful, sister."

"You scoundrel," she whispered back, playfully yet with reproachful undertones. "I haven't seen you in over ten years. How fair your travels? And what of this vision?"

At that moment the vision I was having went dark and I swore that my mother had looked straight at me through the wall of stone and plaster. I then heard my uncle speak again. "I have seen the sunset over Jerusalem, the sparkle of the Mediterranean Sea, the hills of the Romagna and the holy city of Rome. It took my breath away."

"And this vision? Where did you see it? What was it?" my mother urgently pressed. "Please, I haven't time. My ladies will be back soon and I can't risk anyone seeing you."

"Oh sister, it was prophetic," he whispered quickly. "I was upon the hill and as I sat there, looking upon the sunset a light flashed in the sky. Before my eyes, as if through a window, I could see a great pilgrimage in England, for faith and God. I saw a great leader upon his throne but his face was slack and darkened on one side. He was horrifying, dangerously powerful and ominous. And then I saw the rise of a golden haired angel, ravishing red and stunning. I knew it was a sign from God but also knew that the ways of the mother brought it to me."

"You've been blessed," my mother breathed, "Like our ancestors and I. I believe my children have it as well. Young Arthur has always been plagued by dreams and my girls are so instinctive. Henry though, he is something different altogether."

"He is blessed?"

"I believe so," she replied, her voice soft. "He has visions, I know it. He sometimes drifts away and when I drew cards for him, it showed a great destiny. He also has a fiery personality, like our father and our ancestors before. I also believe he is a seer for he has a knack for avoiding trouble and has a mind for the wisdom of the world."

"He may be our line's last hope," uncle Richard replied. "Our sisters, your sisters, never inherited such gifts. Slight gifts but you were always the true inheritor of our line. I hear rumors, sister, that Arthur has always been sickly and slight. What have you seen?"

"I will not speak of it," she replied quickly. "Nothing of it. I love you brother and I do wish you to stay alive and escape should you fail. However, if you do not I will try all I can to council Henry on restraint."

I could feel my heart pounding now as their voices trailed off. Mother promised him she would always love him and he promised her he would always be on her side. I sat there, huddled in the corner for almost a half hour pondering this conversation. Mother had left the room first, darting into her own chamber and then the knight and my uncle left, hooded no doubt, down the side passage and stair into the chambers below. I sat there contemplating the position my mother was in and what she meant, exactly, by the gifts of her ancestors. And how, all this time, I did not know that my mother had such gifts.


	4. October 23, 1497

October 23, 1497

Palace of Sheen, London

The news comes in loudly and excitedly. I can hardly believe the fuss and preparation. My father, Henry VII rides atop his large black war horse and behind him, banners high, is the Tudor rose. He is wearing the golden crown atop his helmet and glittering armor on his breast. He rode through the gate and into the courtyard of the palace with a wave. We all stood, in a neat and beautiful line, without Arthur as usual, smiling at my father's train of knights and lords. He had just returned from a battle against my uncle, the last true surviving York heir.

He stepped down off his horse and onto the block, strode toward my mother, and smiled widely. "We have captured the imposter Perkin Warbeck and have defeated the rebellion in one battle," he announced, his lips finding my mother's cheek. "There is cause to celebrate!"

The celebration was unlike any we had thrown. Father had all the royal family together, except Arthur who would not be invited back to court until the Christmas tide. The great hall was decorated from vault to walls with banners, roses, and candles. It sparkled as we feasted, seated above the great lords and priests of the land.

The celebration feast lasted long, many dishes being presented and passed to court favorites and father's war comrades. It was a delicious and lavish feast and father accepted tokens of victory and heard speeches from many who praised him for his astounding win. It wasn't until the dancing and drinking truly started that mother ushered us all to go with her maid servant and our nanny to bed. It had been a long couple of days and I fell hazily into a deep sleep, one that I was sure would last the entire night. However, within my warm bed and in my dreams I saw something that I was sure I never should have.

"Your majesty," my grandmother bowed, standing in my mother and father's prescience chamber. Mother was brushing out her long hair, the servants dismissed as my father lounged on his plush chair near the fire, drinking from his wine glass deeply. He looked at my grandmother with a wide smile and nodded, offering her the chair opposite him.

"Lady mother," he nodded, offering her a cup of wine from the tray next to him. She shook her head and he poured more into his own glass. "What brings you here tonight?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your victory. You've not yet told me of the details," she replied, looking over at the fireplace. "And I've also come to understand something to be true, though I long suspected the possibility."

"And your suspicions?" my mother asked, her eyes on my grandmother.

"You know perfectly well what suspicions," she replied, looking between the two of them. "I just want to hear you say it."

"Only if you tell me who truly killed my younger brother Edward," my mother demanded, her York temper flaring.

"Darling," my father said, waving his hand toward her. She moved to sit next to him on the softly cushioned bench.

"I can understand your suspicion," my grandmother said, her sense of superiority overshadowing my mother's fading anger. "But I do not know anything for sure."

"My mother communicated to you about her plan to free us, to bring my brother to the throne over Richard," my mother said her voice steady but full of emotion. "We both know that you were communicating with Henry to bring him to the throne and with my brothers out of the way it was that much easier. I know that your deal with Buckingham would have made their murder that much more plausible. So tell me, lady mother, what is the truth?"

"The truth, my queen, is that they both died in the tower at the hand of Buckingham," my grandmother replied, her eyes narrowed. "As was God's will. It was his will to call them to him and his will to bring my Henry to the throne. You should understand that by now. Even your mother did in the end."

"Don't you dare speak of my mother, a former queen of England," my mother hissed, the venom in her voice seeping out. "I have conformed to your will ever since Henry and I were married. I will not conform to you now. You will tell me what you truly know."

"Elizabeth," my father said, his voice stern. "Calm yourself. We can find the truth in a civil manner." He now turned to my grandmother, his eyes firm but sweet. "Mother, as your king I demand the truth. Confess as if it were before God. What do you know of the princes in the tower?"

"That which I have already said," she replied, her eyes firmly on my father. "The night that Buckingham marched on London all those years ago the great rains stalled him across the rivers in Wales. That same night he sent an assassin to London and into the tower. The tower servant, a man paid off for his silence, complied with the deed. Buckingham never confirmed it before his beheading but it was the plan I am sure he would have gone with."

"There," my father said, taking another drink of wine. "Does that not satisfy, my love?"

"I know it was not on your command," my mother said, kissing my father's cheek. "But surely the one to gain the most from my brother's deaths would have been Lady Margaret."

"You accuse me of the murder of two innocent boys?" my grandmother replied, her eyes wide and her expression aghast with horror.

"They were far from innocent," my mother retorted, her eyes narrowed on my grandmother. "They were the sons of Edward IV, King of England and the rightful heirs to his throne. With them out of the way your son, the last Lancastrian heir and my husband, could finally take the throne and throw down Richard. You needed the York support to overthrow Richard and you couldn't get it without the lack of a York heir."

"So you're outright accusing me of the murder of the former princes?" my grandmother repeats, her outrage and anger rising.

"You hide behind God, lady mother, and it makes you seem humble and holy but I have known you much of my life," my mother replies, a hand gently squeezing my father's shoulder as she stood. "And I know you would do anything to see your son in his rightful place. I ask you this as a woman to her mother, as a dutiful daughter. Did you give the order, or the idea, to Buckingham?"

My grandmother's face remained unassuming and then she sighed softly, her face looking haggard and grim. "My daughter, who has born my grandchildren without complaint, I confess to you as a mother," she began softly, the sincerity and seriousness resonating within the room. "I did not give Buckingham the idea nor did I order the murder of your brothers." My mother regarded her, raising her chin as she spoke. "It is true that with them out of the way my son could come to the throne more easily but I would not condemn mine or my son's soul to Hell for any earthly advantage."

A long silence stood between them in which both my mother and grandmother regarded each other closely. Mother's eyes drifted from her face and down to the crucifix around her neck. Her eyes didn't portray her real thoughts, no matter what they were. It was stunning when she smiled and, unexpectedly, moved around my father. She knelt down before grandmother with a somber and repentant gaze and placed her hands gently in her lap. "I will trust your word my lady mother," she said, her head bowed as my grandmother placed a withered palm on her loose golden hair.

"I bless you my child," she replied nobly, grandmother's hand leaving her hair to tilt her chin up to look at her. "And I ask for your forgiveness. I know we have been harsh to one another in the past and that I have never truly allowed myself to trust you. I will make you a promise, here and now, to always be gracious and kind to you. I will pray to God for guidance and I will ask only that you to look upon me kindly."

"I will do so," my mother assured, smiling widely at her, a twinkle in her blue-gray eyes. "And I want to thank you for bringing me the love of my life and by him, the beautiful children both born and lost."

"Would you two thank each other for the air you breathe or the food you consume? Come! Let this unpleasantness pass and the celebrations continue!" my father said, standing from his chair. "Let us be content in the security of the Tudor dynasty."

"What of the rebellion?" my grandmother asks as my mother rises from her knees before her. "Of Warbeck and his forces? I only know that they were defeated but in what manner?"

"I will tell you what I know," my father offers, his eyes on my mother as she nods. "The pretender is dead and the country is at peace once more. Let us hope we can keep it that way for the Tudor dynasty that we have started." My father drains what is left in his goblet before offering his hand to my mother. She takes it and moves with him across the chamber, his arms going around her waist as if he were to dance and then she laughs, her eyes alight again.

"And the rumor?" my grandmother asks, her eyes back on the fire. "I've heard some interesting proposals but I would much rather hear the truth from my own son."

My father simply grinned, inclining his head and letting go of my mother's hand. It was a scene that I could not forget even if I wanted to. Both my father and mother stood still, their backs straight and their eyes fixed on my grandmother. Father's chin lifted and with a great sigh he nodded, winking at my mother as she stood nobly next to him. "Very well," he conceded. "The rumors were true. This Warbeck is, in fact, Richard Duke of York, son of Edward IV and brother to the queen."

The quiet between the three of them was intense and after a few minutes of awkward silence my grandmother spoke, the scene fading as she did.

"And you intend to keep him alive, imprisoned?"

"As far as the people and nobles are concerned, he is a pretender," my father replied, his face fading and the dream I was having darkening. "But to us, he is family and will enjoy a restricted but comfortable life in the tower."


	5. December 23, 1497

December 23, 1497

Sheen Palace, London

The rushes were spread, the mistletoe hung, and the grand decoration of the many halls, chambers, and gardens was done almost two weeks ago. Each room smelled of spruce, sage, and roses and the grand fireplaces of the great hall were continuously lit, merriment every day during the twelve days of Christmas tide. We feasted, danced, drank, and enjoyed Christmas plays and music all in the lit hall and grand galleries. Mother and father were both merry, generously handing out gifts and favors, excitement all around the court.

Mother, the night before last, had abstained from the merriment and even though father said she was spending the night in her chambers, I knew she was not there. Somehow, I knew he was lying. My suspicions were confirmed when I asked to bid her goodnight and was denied. She never denied an audience with me; not ever. However, tonight she was merry and full of life, dancing with father and other nobles, making sure to show off Mary, Margaret, and myself in our Yule Tide best.

I had enjoyed many grand presents, accepting them as grandmother taught me; with dignity and humility. Tonight was a spectacular night, only to be topped by Christmas eve and the Christmas mass at Westminster. But tonight I danced the newest dances with Margaret, drank my first cup of wine with father, and enjoyed a beautiful carol by the royal choir. When the clocks rang eleven and the great lords were deep into their cups, my mother escorted our nanny and maids to put us all in bed. Midnight mass was an important staple during the Christmas season and grandmother assured that neither mother, nor father, missed it.

"Will we be able to attend mass tomorrow?" I asked, Margaret turning from her gossip about the appearance of the Duke of Somerset's son to glare at me. Surely she didn't want to waste her night in prayer.

"If you wish," my mother grinned, fixing my grand feathered hat. "It is Christmas eve after all."

"I do not want to attend, I would much rather stay up dancing," Margaret reassures, a desperate plea in her eye. "After all, I am the eldest daughter of the king of England. The whole court should see me merry and healthy. After all, any husband I may have will expect as much."

"You're too smart for your own good Margaret," my mother replied, turning down the hall toward Margaret's rooms. "Would you like me to tuck you in?"

"I can manage mother," she giggled, nodding for the maid to follow her before kissing mother gently on the cheeks. "Goodnight," she said moving swiftly toward her door.

"How about you Henry? Would you like me to tuck you in?"

"I think I can manage as well mother," I whispered, smiling up at her. "I am very sleepy and my first experience with wine has increased my need for rest."

"Go my little prince," she smiled down at me, taking Mary from her nanny. "I will come to you in the morning after mass."

I simply nodded, bowing to her before turning down the gallery toward my rooms. I could see the adjacent hall where mother and father's rooms were and I could see that the candles had already been lit in their private chapel. I opened my door and stepped in to find my page finishing up my own candles, a fresh warm bowl of water on my table. I waved for him to fetch me something to drink and my night shirt and then began to peel off my hat, jewels, and shoes. I also pulled off the fine ermine vest and the handsome golden silk jacket before turning to the bowl of warm water. I washed my face, arms, hands, and rinsed my hair before throwing off the fine linen undershirt to run a warm wet rag over my chest.

I had read, in a text written by an Arab man, that washing the body with warm water and doing some mild exercises before bed could improve health. When my page came in ten minutes later with a pitcher of cool water, some small meat pies, and a rare fruit imported from Spain called the pomegranate, I was doing some pushups. Having just finished running in place and stretching my arms and legs, I felt it necessary to finish with some strain and sweat.

"May I do anything else for you, highness?" the page asked, offering me a cup of the water. I got up from the floor, took the cup, and shook my head.

"Just stoke my fire for the night and get some sleep," I said, drinking the cup in one gulp and then taking a pastry from the tray. The page nodded and started stoking the fire with the dry wood in the basket next to it.

I sat down now, eating a couple of pastries, finishing another glass of water, and taking the pomegranate with me into bed as my page slipped the night shirt over my head. I dismissed him, crawled into bed, and enjoyed the delicious fruit on the lush pillows and feather downs. It was when I was slipping into sleep that I smelt it. It was distinguishable and I immediately looked about, my eyes searching the room. It was when I heard the bustle in the hall that I knew something was happening.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on my warm fur robe, and strapped on my leather boots before pushing my door open. Outside there was the distinct smell of burning fur and the smoke was drifting down the hall in a slow but frightening crawl along the ceiling. The light was bright and I could tell immediately that the blaze was coming from my mother and father's royal apartments. I ran toward the blazing light only to feel a heavy and rough hand on my shoulder. It was none other than my father. His eyes were wide as he scooped me under his arm and began quickly running down the opposite way.

"Father!" I shouted, struggling in his arm. "Where is mother? Margaret?! Mary!"

"They are ahead of us," he said gruffly, bounding toward the stair with long strides, the smoke following behind us. As we reached the great stair I could hear my mother and sisters at the bottom, yelling to hurry. Father nearly fell twice as the blaze spread above us, engulfing the tapestries, long curtains, and wooden carvings all about the gallery. I nearly screamed out when the flames licked at our backs, the roof creaking and cracking above us. We barely skirted through the lintel of the foyer when we heard a great crack, the beam above the gallery collapsing and breaking the stair we had just descended. I screamed out but father's grip tightened and like we were flying he leapt over the toppled tables and benches, through the archway and into the side yard where dozens of servants rushed forward to help us.

My mother was in the arms of one of her maids, holding baby Mary tight to her as Margaret sobbed at her side. My grandmother, who was standing next to them spotted us and immediately rushed forward, wrapping my father and I in a loving embrace. My father immediately moved us away from the burning palace, the towers alight with flame and the windows ablaze with fire and smoke. It was horrifying and as the servants tried to save any of the goods within, we rushed away toward the river, the barge lying in wait for our escape.

"Darling," my father said when we reached my mother, holding me close and embracing her with his free arm. My grandmother took Margaret's hand and lead us all down the cobblestone street, toward the inside gate. My father had one hand around my mother's waist guiding her, the other clutching me to his side so securely that I thought for sure we would meld as one. As we rushed down the sloping cobblestones, toward the river gate, I could hear the cracking and screaming of the servants behind us. I turned in my father's arms to see the horrifying site.

The roof was aflame, the golden orange, yellow, and red engulfing the high rafters and tiles of the great palace. Servants were shouting, some pulling out limp bodies from burning doorways, their own hair or clothing ablaze. I watched in horror as a man desperately tried to move the fallen smoldering beams from the doorway and saw that within were the flailing and pleading hands of those trapped inside. I could hear their burning screams from across the courtyard and their pleas for mercy. For a moment in our quick exodus I spotted a figure among the flames of the collapsing roof. A dark form dancing in the red and orange light, my eyes following the figure which to me was clearly female. I watched in horror at the wings smoldering with hot flame and churning with smoke rise into the air, the face of the frightening beauty looking down at us. I swear it was the angel of death and that we, the Tudor family, had narrowly escaped her fiery judgement.

"Father!" I called, my eyes never leaving the horrible site within the flame. "Father, it's her. The angel of death… father…"

"Quiet Henry," my mother said, her free hand reaching up to wipe away the tears that I had shed unconsciously. Her eyes met mine and I knew why she had silenced me, why her gray-blue eyes warned me to remain silent; it was for my own good.

"All will be well," my father assured as we came to the gateway that lead down to the water steps. He released his grip on me slightly and I turned to see our royal barge, surrounded by guards, some coming up to bow and greet my father. "Come, aboard the barge. We will travel to Windsor and to safety. Tell the servants and my council that tomorrow at noon we will hold a mass to give thanks for our safe deliverance from sure destruction."

"Come," my grandmother insisted, looking about quickly. She had a keen suspicion of the people of London and it wasn't until much later that I discovered why. We all were loaded onto the barge, bundled under what furs and linens that were saved, and rowed from the now brightly burning palace of Sheen to Windsor, the royal residence of many monarchs of the past.

As the rowers plunged their ores into the water, I could hear grandmother softly praying under her breath. My father sat next to my mother, her head on his shoulder and Mary snugly nestled in their laps, her eyes heavy with sleep. Margaret sat between my grandmother and father, her eyes darting about in panic. I sat wrapped in my warm fur robe, another blanket thrown over me to keep me from the icy winter river. I heard my parents whispering to one another and then, when my grandmother had done muttering her prayers, she turned to my father.

"What happened?" she questioned, her eyes narrowing on him.

"The fire began in our apartments," my father whispered, his arm still around my mother. "While we were still downstairs, doing the rounds and wishing everyone a good night, a page came rushing downstairs to tell us what happened and the lords and ladies panicked, all clamoring for the doors. Cowards."

"That is expected," my grandmother assured, the distain in her voice evident. "They are vultures, living in lavish vanity by our leave. How did the fire start? Why did no one wake the children?"

"They thought it could be managed, a small linen fire," my father replied, smiling when my mother rested her weary head on his shoulder. "But the flames soon spread out of control and the few servants who were managing panicked and ran to warn us all."

"They should be flogged," my grandmother hissed, my mother's brow furrowing.

"They didn't have time to think it through," my father said, his voice wavering as the cool breeze whipped over the barge. "And all is well now. We are alive, safe, by the grace of God."

"And we will thank him," my grandmother assured, her voice alive in the night air. "For our clean escape. The fire itself is a sign from God; of that I have no doubt."

"Your prophecies and signs are legendary," my father sighs softly, looking over at his mother wearily. "And I agree that God has blessed us and shown us his will by allowing us all to escape with our lives. We will give thanks."

"My son," my grandmother whispered, seeing the three women surrounding the king silently sleeping. "This is truly a sign from God. Do you not remember? Sheen was gifted, for life, to Elizabeth Woodville by her husband, the father of your wife. Do you not think it is divine providence that we Tudors, who were occupying it, escaped the blaze of its destruction? This is truly a sign that the Yorks, and that era of civil war and uncertainty, are defeated."

"Hush mother," my father says, his eyes drifting between the sleeping women beside him and me, who was lulling at the sway of the river and the splashing of ores.

"Henry understands," my grandmother assures, smiling at my sleepy face. "Surely you can see that Henry and God have a special connection. Our bright young prince will one day serve him in the greatest of ways."

"Still," my father sighed, shaking his head. "Henry is too young and tonight has been too eventful."

"He will understand one day," my grandmother's voice offered, fading as I felt my head lull to the side against the nanny's firm but warm shoulder. I saw a smile spread over my father's face as he looked at me, his image fading with the warmth of the furs.

After a long midday mass, a solemn moment of silence for the servants and courtiers still trapped inside the rubble, and a small feast, Christmas eve passed with mother and father blessing the court and retiring to bed. Of course, they both came straight to our nursery that night. Mother immediately started playing with Mary while Margaret spoke to her of what would happen to Sheen. She was pressing the issue because of her now buried and probably burned collection of gowns, robes, and furs. She didn't care about the palace or the history of the place itself, she only cared for her precious gems and gowns.

My father, who simply smiled at Margaret's questions and concerns, sat down across from me, spotting the book in my hand. "Ah," he says, reaching out to point at the book. "I have read this book before my son. Chaucer is a true English work of literature. Did you know that your grandmother Margaret's grandfather John Beaufort was nephew to Geoffrey Chaucer?"

I looked up at him with utter fascination. I couldn't help it thought; literature, poems, and writing were my passion and Chaucer was always a favorite. "Truly father? Do you mean to say that you and I are related to the great man?"

"Not by blood," he says, trying to let me down easily. "You see, John Gaunt, who was the son of Edward III and great-grandfather to your grandmother Margaret, was a patron of Chaucer. He was always close with him and it is even rumored that the _Book of the Duchess_ is about his first wife, Blanche Lancaster."

I gasped, making him pause with a soft smile. Chaucer's tale was a beautiful picture of a weeping knight who'd lost his lady love, the poem pulling out the deepest of emotions for every reader. The fact that the great black knight and the beautiful lost maiden were my own ancestors truly beguiled me. All I could think was how grand it would be if I, like my ancestor, could find a love as strong as that.

"Well, John Gaunt married a third wife after the loss of his love and that lady's sister was already married to Chaucer," my father said, motioning for the maid to bring him a cup of wine. She rushed over and offered it to him, a smile on his face. He then looked back at me, sipping on his cup. "The sister who married John was Katherine Swynford and this is where your grandmother and I trace our lineage. All the way back to the great Edward III. Of course, Chaucer was always a welcomed guest at the Plantagenet royal court. He was even freed from capture during the great 100-year-war by Edward III himself."

"How do you know all this father?" I asked, my eyes wide.

"Your grandmother and my uncle Jasper, God rest his soul," he replied with a solemn but kind smile.

"I do enjoy the tales about knights, ladies, battles, and ballads," I said, looking down at the open book in my lap. "Tell me, father, what was it like as a young man in Brittany? What was battle like?"

"Brutal," he answers abruptly, his eyes somewhat dark as he stared into the fire. "Bloody, loud, confusing, and utterly horrifying."

"But you won," I whispered, looking about so that mother and the girls didn't hear me. "You won and became king. Surely you were happy? Surely you knew that God was on your side?"

"Afterward I was relieved to have survived such slaughter," he replied, his voice low and measured. "But during, I felt no God, saw no hope, and could not even hear my own thoughts. War is a horrible thing Henry, you must learn that now, while you are still young enough to accept tutelage. It is not always going to be a guaranteed win. I was sure at several times during our charge, retreat, and routings that I would be impaled or cut down. The only reason I won was because one man decided to finally fight for his rightful king. If he had turned on me, you would not be here."

The silence between us was long, father leaning back again in the plush chair to finish his goblet of wine. He looked like he was contemplating something, his eyes intense with the flickering fire reflected in them. Then he looked at me again and for the first time I saw pain in his eyes. He leaned forward, placed a hand on my small shoulder, and whispered so that only he, I, and God could hear.

"Harry," he smiled. "You will learn a great many things over the course of your life. If there is one thing you remember of me, let it be this: the monarchy is a tree, vast and reaching back hundreds of years. It occasionally needs pruned and when seeds try and drop from it to start their own little sapling, you must pluck it out root and stem. Never, under any circumstances, leave such malicious intent unhindered, do you understand?"

His dark eyes were intense and I couldn't help but stare into them. It was as if they were swimming with memories. These memories I could see reflected in his wide eyes as the voices and cries of battles past stunned me to silence. He moved to the edge of the chair now, taking my small hands in his and nodding with a smile, a smile that I just couldn't understand. I was unsure if it was one of pity, love, pride, or contentment. This smile, I knew, was meant to tell me something and for the longest time, I never understood what.

"What are you two conspiring?" my mother's voice came from above us and like a mirror of one another, both my father and I looked up at her, grins on our faces. She smiled back with a raised thin eyebrow but said no more, placing a kiss on my cheeks before turning to take a goblet offered by the maid.

After a few moments of the three of us just enjoying the fire, Margaret came over, looing between us jealously. "It is almost time for mass, mother," she whispered, glancing at the small woodwork clock on our wall. "Grandmother is expecting all of us to meet and ride as a family to Westminster in the carriage."

"I will not bring little Mary," mother whispered, her eyes glancing over at the now sleeping toddler in her bed. "But we must all dress. Come Margaret, the maid will take you to your rooms to change." Margaret only bowed and followed, not fighting the need for such a late mass this time. Mother then turned back to father and smiled. "Will you not ready yourself, husband?"

He only smiled up at her, nodding before standing up to kiss her cheeks. "I shall see you both shortly," he said, turning and striding from the room with his page following down the gallery.

"Harry," my mother whispered, moving to sit across from me now. "Tell me, my son, what did you see last night?"

This question was so out of nowhere that I sat there dumbfounded, the sight of that horrifying creature in the flames coming back to me quickly. Mother could tell because I had gone pale and her hands immediately took mine.

"Harry," she whispered again, kissing my forehead. "Tell me, what was it?"

"A woman," I whispered, looking at the maid who was putting away our toys and belongings across the room. "A horrible angel of death with burning wings and fiery eyes. We narrowly escaped, she was going to kill us all…"

"Hush," my mother said, pulling me into her arms and kissing the top of my head. "No more."

"Was it a vision?" I asked weakly, knowing that she would understand.

"Yes," she replied, her lips brushing my hair. "You saw the manifestation of malice and horror. You saw the wrath of our lady goddess."

"Why did she come after us? Why was she so angry?"

"A curse," my mother replied, this time with a trembling voice. "A curse carelessly cast against an unknown foe." I could feel hot tears on my brow now. "Oh, my Harry, please do not be frightened. The mother goddess would never hurt one of her own and this punishment was not meant for us. She watched over us all last night and that is why we escaped. Please, my son, fear no more."

"This mother goddess is a witch, a demon against God almighty," I replied, clutching her sleeves. "I will not allow her into my heart, or mind, ever again. She is not my mother."

"Never say such things," my mother snapped, her eyes narrowed on me. "Never. You are the descendant of the mother goddess and her priestesses here on earth. You, like myself, my mother, and her mother before her all share her mortal blood. We cannot control what we see my son and you, I am afraid, have been chosen by fate."

"I don't want it!" I said loudly, making the maid turn and Mary fuss in her bed.

"Listen to me," mother replied, taking my face in her hands. "The mother goddess is not always vengeful and frightening. She has always been, until now, a beautiful guide and a loyal companion. She brought me your father and before that my mother her king. You can feel her prescience; I know you can. That is why I am telling you this now my son; do not be frightened by the gift that was given you, the last surviving male heir of our ancient house of magic."

I sat there, staring into my mother's blue-gray eyes hoping that this was all a joke, some sort of horrible prank played on the son destined for the church but to my horror it was not. I could feel her alright, as if she were sitting in the room with us, watching and patiently waiting for my answer to her call. I couldn't understand how my beautiful and kind mother hid such a dark and unholy heritage.

"Harry," she said, snapping me out of my daze. "You listen to me and you listen well. The magic of nature and of the water that we possess is not evil, it is not a sin. It is the way of the ancient world and the way we pass on our knowledge to the future generations. I will, this spring and summer, teach you the ways of herbs, medicines, tinctures, and ointments. I will teach you how to scry and how to bless. You will learn, in time, that this art passed down through generations will help you in every stage of life."

"What if grandmother finds out?" I ask, looking toward the maid who is rocking Mary back to sleep.

"She will not," my mother says with a smile. "I was not able to teach Arthur and Margaret and Mary don't even have half of your power. The mother goddess has chosen you, my Harry, to be her champion and I believe she's chosen well." My mother now stood up, offering her hand. "Come, let us go to your chamber. We must put on your fine furs and I must put on the royal costume for mass."

I couldn't help but smile and giggle at the silly face she made when she said costume. She always hated the official robes and dresses but knew it to be important. That was my mother though. She could be serious, mysterious, and humorous all in the same conversation. She was unique in every way and that silly smile and excited twinkle in her eye made me forget all about the burden I was gifted.


	6. 1498-1499

April 15, 1498

Windsor Castle, London

It was finally spring and today was a grand day. After the destruction of the Palace of Sheen, my father began designing and raising funds for a new royal palace, more grand and beautiful than any in London. He decides to name the new palace Richmond and when my brother Arthur arrives from Wales in his retinue of household servants and retainers, he declares that the three Tudor men will go to the construction site and bless his project.

It was a beautiful retinue, my father readying the royal barge with roses, white and red, and a beautiful golden silk set of curtains to show off our grand Tudor monarchy. My brother and I, dressed in matching red leather, golden silk robes, and great feathered caps sat beside my father on the barge as the crowds gathered on the banks of the Thames. We waved, nodded, and smiled at the cheering crowds that gathered to watch the king and two princes pass by.

When we arrived at the old river stairs of Sheen, we could see that all of the charred rubble and wood was gone and in the old stone courtyard stood piles and piles of white granite and finely polished stone bricks. The workers, already covered in white powder from their labors, saw us and stopped their chiseling, hammering, and hauling to stop and make a path up the walk. Our guards lead the way, the Tudor banner flying, the royal flag of England also waving in the early spring winds.

We move through the crowd of plainly dressed workers, their heads down and their eyes low as we passed. The foreman of the project, a dirty but more finely dressed man stands, bowing low, up the small hill near the base layer of the grand new hall. There is a ceremonial red silk sash laying over a single stone that sits atop a wagon and there beside it stands a priest, his purple robes and hat vibrant in the simple white and gray of the courtyard. He blesses us as we approach and when all three of us line up before him he speaks loudly, and in Latin.

He blesses the king, his sons, the queen and the princesses and then he speaks of the great legacy of the Tudors and their Plantagenet ancestors. He speaks of the fire, the lost souls within the rubble, and the mercy of God. Then, with leave from my father, he blesses the stone before him and takes the sash, wrapping it around a large hammer.

"Come!" he echoes across the courtyard, the crowds outside the walls and down the street watching as my father steps forward. Two masons grabbed the stone and placed it in the final open slot of the low wall, standing aside so that my father could approach. He took the hammer in this hands, swung it over his head, and smacked the stone into place, an eruption of cheers overtaking the courtyard. He handed the mallet to the mason next to him, turned, and with a nod he made his way back down the street toward the barge. He waved, as did both Arthur and I and for the most part we seemed like a well ordered, vibrant, group of Tudor men. However, it was when we got back to the palace that my brother took me aside, bidding my father farewell.

I rarely spent time with my brother. He was sent to Wales the year I turned four and I haven't seen him much since. He was a tall blonde boy with some slight muscles and a gaunt look in his cheeks. His nose, like my fathers, was long and straight and he had a soft smile on his face when he pulled me aside.

"Harry," he said, smiling down at me. "How should you like to go riding with me? I feel like it is a waste to not enjoy this beautiful day." He could see the confusion and uncertainty in my face and he quickly knelt down, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Harry… this isn't anything official. I'm your brother. I want to spend some time with you. How does a picnic sound?"

I only nodded, hesitant to say anything to defy him. He smiled wider, stood up, and motioned for my page and his to come forward. "We need a basket of food, some wine, and milk. We're riding out past the walls and having a picnic. Round up six guards to escort the us." Both page boys nodded, turned from us, and made their way towards the stables and kitchen.

"Come," my brother offered. "Let us get our riding clothes on." He then took my hand, walked through Saint George's gate and into the castle.

After dressing and meeting back in the courtyard, a single horse saddled, we heard someone call my name. I turned as one of the soldiers escorting us lifted me into the saddle in front of Arthur. It was my grandmother, quickly gliding toward us. Her face seemed pleasant but I could see the flare in her eyes.

"Your highness," she breathed, bowing to my brother as he sat atop our horse. "Please, it is not wise to go out riding today. I beg you to reconsider your plans."

"I have guards and I would like to spend time with my brother Henry, Duke of York," my brother said, as if realizing it himself for the first time. "So I shall find you later, dear lady grandmother, for prayer and good company." And without so much as another word he spurred his horse forward and we went clacking off through the Norman gate, down the long cobblestone way to the tower hill and out the castle gates. The guards clacked along behind us and we rode quickly, skirting the river and following the road to the game forest that father kept stock all summer. We rode freely, followed by one page on horseback who held our goods.

It was quite fun and along the way my brother made silly jokes and whispered about the exciting books he'd received for Christmas. We laughed about the boys running naked through the forest, fresh from a spontaneous bath in the river no doubt and we yelled and hooted at their bare bottoms. It was more fun than I ever remember having and when we had ridden for almost an hour through the expansive acres of forest and field, we stopped atop a hill. The page quickly jumped down, grabbed the both horse's reins, and offered us the satchel of water in his hand. Arthur took it, offered me some which I happily took, my face stinging with wind and excitement. He then took a big drink himself and handed the skin back.

The page then moved around the side of the horse, offering his arms for me to get down. I slid into them and he lowered me to the side, still holding tightly to the horse's reins. My brother swung down quickly, waving at my approaching page. "Thank you Charles," Arthur said, waving the tall dark haired boy away, his muscles much more developed than my brother. The page bowed and pulled our horses along to the tree near the bottom of the hill to tie him up.

"His name is Charles Brandon," Arthur said, noting my curiosity. "He is the son of father's banner-man who died at Bosworth. He will be my squire soon."

"He is a strong boy," I admit, looking back at my brother. "Is he your friend?"

"The best I have," he chuckled. "But come, let us sit in the grass and enjoy the blue sky and warm spring breeze."

We sat there, basket open and food spread on dishes all about the fine sewn rug under us. We drank and ate and laughed about my studies, Arthur's duties, and his dreams for the future. He was, as I had heard him to be, a thoughtful and gallant prince. He spoke of making charitable donations to educational foundations, improvements to the quality of life of our people, including greater London, and he even spoke of the restoration of many of our run-down and underfunded abbeys and monasteries.

"I want our people to be happy in a true renaissance, much like what has taken place all over Italy. Great masters of arts, sciences, philosophy, and theology all coming together to share ideas and knowledge. A great rebirth for England!" He took a drink of his wine now, grinning up at the sky. "If it be God's will."

"Nothing, I am sure, would please God more," I say, eating the last of the fruit filled cakes. "After the uncertainty that she has endured, and her fall from grace after the 100-year war, it would certainly be God's agenda to send us a great king with such noble and pure ideas to rule over mother England."

"God works in the most mysterious ways Harry," Arthur whispered, his eyes flitting over the swaying grass. He looked deep in thought and as we both sat there, I could hear him humming a folksy tune, something rhythmic but whimsical. He then turned back to me and with the most serious of tones, spoke. "Do you understand God, Harry?"

"Sometimes," I say hesitantly, my eyes darting about. Brandon was sitting near the base of the hill with my page while the soldiers rested with their lunch down near the horses.

"Don't be afraid of what you see," he advises, his eyes turning toward the sky again. "The world is full of mystery and wonder and I, as your older brother, have given you the opportunity to explore it. Being second born, destined for the church, you could easily take a pilgrimage, perhaps follow the road of the famous Marco Polo in the east?"  
"And leave you all, England?" I asked, my eyes wide with wonder. "It is my duty to rise high in the church here in England, to aid your reign and help advise your prince and heir one day. Why would I run away from such a fate?"

"You could," he merely replied, looking back at me. "I'm just saying that you could whereas I… cannot."

I thought about that for a moment, the finality of it stunning me. I knew what my brother was in store for, even if I didn't fully understand yet. I knew the horrible danger of the court, the risk he would be putting himself, his family, and his heirs in. I understood, like we all did, the uncertainty of allies and the power the nobles held with their vast private armies. Everything was dangerous and ever since I could read, I was schooled in history and governance.

"Don't look so sad," my brother said, his hand going out to touch my face. "You wear your heart on your sleeve, like a noble knight Harry. It is a good thing you are dedicating yourself to God. No need for a mask."

"You say such serious things," I sigh, looking away from him. "What do you expect me to learn from it all?"

"Only that I care for you," he smiled, nodding at me. "I may be slight and I may be more of a priest than a warrior but I assure you, brother, England will shine under my reign and you, no matter where you are, will be loved dearly."

"Perhaps I will see Rome," I comment, smiling at him. "It is the eternal city. Surely the Holy Father would see me if I made the pilgrimage."

"And then what, surely Rome is not it?"

"Constantinople," I smirk, looking out into the distance as if it stood upon the horizon. "And further south to Jerusalem where I would hear the very voice of God."

"What a beautiful thought," my brother sighed, leaning back and staring up at the clouds.

"And then perhaps further south, into Egypt to see the great pyramids and the river Nile. I would love to sail in a grand ship up the Nile to discover all the treasures of such an ancient forgotten world," I continue, my voice hazy and my mind awash with the options. "Or maybe further east, to the great Himalayas and the even greater expanse of the Chinese continent."

"Ah, the famous lands of Marco Polo," Arthur nods, a sense of nostalgia behind his voice. "What a beautiful green world it would be. So foreign but so exotically beautiful. Tell me, has there ever been an alliance between a western and eastern king?"

"I've not heard of one," I said, thinking a moment. "Only for trade purposes and nothing more. Perhaps if we count Russia and their Czars…"

"They are quite foreign," he chuckled. "But no, I mean the far east. India, China, and that island nation, Japan? Surely there could be great benefits to a unification between east and west?"

"It is bold," I say, shrugging. "But if it could be done, I would support you. I doubt, however, the holy father would."

"This Pope, this Borgia, is open to quite a few things I hear," he smirks wickedly. "I hear he is a Murano, a Spanish Jew, and is open to many cultures and important works to spread Christianity."

"Grandmother said he is God's chosen vessel and that no matter the rumors, he is our holy father," I say, mimicking her tight and serious tone.

"Oh, indeed," Arthur laughed, ruffling my hair. "One day you will travel, see the world and not be stuck here, in England, like poor ole me."

"And what of this new world, discovered by the Italian Columbus?" I ask, remembering of the continent newly discovered in the west.

"A world unlike any other, perhaps the garden of Eden itself," Arthur suggested, sitting up again. "But Harry, I do need to talk to you about one thing, something quite important that I feel it is my right to talk to you about." I straightened up, looking up at him curiously. He simply sighed, smiling at me before folding his hands in his lap and speaking with a steady but quiet voice.

"As of right now, I am the heir to the throne and you, being the Duke of York, are my heir," he began, looking over the fields again. "It is important to understand that your role right now is understated. I don't think you're sure how serious this is."

"I don't," I admit, sure that I was not in any sort of immediate need or that I needed to know more than I already did.

"I mean, if something were to happen to me, before father dies or before I have a male heir, the crown gets passed to you," he said, his voice quite serious. "And I need to know if you can accept that, if you can pick up that mantle?"

"Is that what the talk of a pilgrimage was about? So that I may see the world before I am confined to England?" I asked, my eyes finding his with quick certainty. Much like my mother, my brother Arthur spoke of deeper meanings. "Do you fear something? Can you… see things too?" I whisper that last part so quietly that I am afraid he does not hear me.

"I see some things," he confesses, looking back at the sky. "But as for my future, I see nothing."

"Then all will be well," I say, shaking my head. "There is no need for me to think of such a fate."

"But all the same," Arthur insists. "Could you do it? Could you temper your emotion, be impartial, and think of the greater good of an entire realm? Could you work with and against the snakes at court to secure this realm against all enemies? I need to know this…"

"I would try," I say, gallantly placing my hand over my heart. "If ever God calls me to such a station, I will endure it with humility and decisiveness."

"Good," Arthur smiles, waving for Charles and my page, John, to come over. "We're heading back. It is getting late and we are expected." He then stands up and within a few minutes we are on the move, horse galloping along the path towards the great gates of Windsor. It was a pleasant but slow ride back, my eyes watching the sinking sun. It was nice to hear my brother's stories about Wales, about his sailing trips down river, and I liked when he spoke of taking a bride one day, a beautiful Spanish princess if father has his way.

When we entered the gate into the main courtyard we saw a servant already waiting, torch alight in the golden light of the lowering sun. He came forward, took the reins, and offered the block for me to step down on. After we left the horse and entered the castle we could hear two sets of shoes approaching us down the stairs. When we looked up to see who it was I could see the glimpse of a grin on Arthur's face.

"Arthur, Henry," came my grandmother's voice, her eyes harsh as she approached. Next to her, silent as usual, was our mother, a smile on her face.

"My boys," mother said, placing a hand on each of our heads as we knelt for her blessing. "Come inside, wash and change for we are having a feast. Your father has ordered it and you shall know why when you attend. Come." She then turned, before my grandmother could object, and stalked back up the stairs, her long golden hair hanging from her headdress.

It was only an hour later that we were back in the entry way to the large hall, finely dressed and standing in front of our grandmother and sister. The door before us was open and within people were laughing and talking, drinking and dancing and the curtains that hung over the lintel swayed with guests flooding in and out. After a few moments the curtains were pulled aside completely and the caller at the entry banged his staff on the wooden floor with a loud clack.

"Majesties, Arthur Prince of Wales, Henry Duke of York, Mother of the King Lady Margaret Beaufort, and the royal princess Margaret Tudor!"

As we walked through the hall the way parted before us and everyone bowed deeply, their eyes averted but many glanced at our lavish outfits, hats, shoes, and our beautifully noble faces. We were like a prized parade to the nobles and priests at court and we must do our part. What this feast is for I could not guess.

"My children! My lady mother!" came our father's voice as we approached the great raised table at the head of the hall. "Come, Prince of Wales and Duke of York, sit to my left. And my lady mother and beautiful daughter may sit next to my queen, on my right." He bows to us from the table and we mirror him, moving to our designated spots. It was very odd to have the entire family in the same room, feasting and presiding over a grand dinner. Our father motioned for us to sit but he remained standing, looking over the hall with a smile.

"There is two pieces of news that I would like to share with you all! One, concerns the Prince of Wales!" He raises his hands at the applause. "It is with pleasure that I announce, to my council and to my court, that we are in preliminary negotiations with the Emperor King Ferdinand of Spain for the hand of his youngest daughter, lady Catherine of Aragon."

There was an eruption of applause and I joined in, smiling up at my brother knowingly. He couldn't help but grimace back at me. "And secondly!" my father continued, looking over the table at all of us before continuing. "News has come from France! After his unholy conquest of Italy, Rome, and Naples, the tyrant King Charles of France is dead! So let us celebrate!" He raised his glass now, smiling about the room. "To England and Saint George!"

"To England and Saint George!" we all repeated, taking drinks from our cups. It was then that the dozen serving boys all came bustling out, offering the dishes to my father first, so he may pass dishes off to his favorites. The night wasn't too long but I felt weary from such a long day and within the hour I felt myself fading over my meat pies and hot baked lamb. Just then my brother nudged me and I saw that my father was looking at us both with a smile.

"Come," he said, moving to stand. "I must speak with you before you sleep." He stood up and everyone mirrored him, his hand going up to dismiss the deed. "As you were everyone. Enjoy the food, music, and wine. I shall be back momentarily." He then nods for us to follow him behind the raised table toward a paneled door behind the curtains. We went into his private study and he offered us chairs near the fire. We all sat about the fireplace and when the servant had offered us drink or food my father dismissed him, turning soberly to us.

"Now, I will not take up much time. I can see you are both weary from the day's events and I am eager to return to the celebrations," he began, looking between us. "I must insist on the importance of this event. With Charles' death it leaves France wide open for the next king, a Valois who hates our family. He will make sure to use any advantage he can against us. Do you both understand that?"

We nodded in unison and my father smiled. "I need you to know that his alliance with Spain is important for that very reason. It will provide us a backup and a strong ally against France, whom Spain hates anyway. So, we must be decisive and we must keep an eye on the libertarian monarchs in France."

"We know this all father," Arthur concedes, bowing his head. "We've always known this."

"But there is something more," my father said, smiling between us. "If Arthur is married to Spain we can strengthen our influence in France as well. I was considering a marriage between Margaret and the new king Louis who is fervently seeking a divorce from Pope Alexander. Tell me, did you know that as well?"

"Margaret will be pleased," I commented quietly, looking away when my father turned back to me, a grin on his face.

"You think so?" he asked, his hands coming together to contemplate the matter. "Personally, I want good relations with both monarchs and our allies in the low countries would benefit from more open trade routes in the channel and North Sea. But tell me, young Henry, what do you think of marriage?"

"If it pleases you, father," I say, bowing my head. "Grandmother has always said I was meant for a life dedicated to God but if it is your will that I marry then I will comply."

"How very noble of you Harry," he chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "I only meant to ask you how you feel about the marriages in general, how you feel about allying ourselves with both France and Spain?"

"I think it wise," I corrected, feeling a blush on my cheek. "Pleasant relations with both monarchs would put England between the two countries if they were to go to war."

"And, since King Ferdinand only has daughters, the husband that remains will be King of Spain and, if God wills it, England," my father smirks at Arthur. "Do you understand?"

"Ferdinand has four daughters, two of which are already married to the son of Emperor Maximillian and the other to Emanuel of Portugal," Arthur comments. "And Ferdinand's only son and heir just died this past year. Who, then, is the successor?"

"Isabella of Portugal," my father nodded. "She is the eldest."

"And Catarina," Arthur continued. "Is the youngest. What chance do I have?"

"Isabella is heavy with child," my father nods. "If she delivers a boy, Ferdinand has his heir. If she does not, he will pass over her I am sure."

"And what of Joanna?" my brother asked. In all honesty, I was trying to keep up with their plotting and scheming, trying to understand all of their dealings.

"Ferdinand deems her insane," my father replied lowly, shrugging his shoulders. "She will never inherit."

"But what of her and Phillip's son? If he inherits he will be the Holy Roman Emperor and Emperor of Spain."

"The greatest monarch in all of Europe," my father nods. "So we must interfere now, throw England's hat into the ring."

"Maria is older than Catarina," Arthur said, thinking on this. "What possible advantage could the younger sister give me?"

"Ferdinand is already considering a French marriage for Maria," my father admits. "The very marriage that I want for Margaret."

"Then we must act quickly," I nodded, looking between my father and brother. I understood the significance of bringing them both to the table and I could only think of one way to do so. "Approach both kings with our plan at the exact same time, force them to deal with us first before they deal with one another."

"Excellent idea Harry," Arthur smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. "An elegant but sneaky move." Arthur begins to chuckle now, squeezing my shoulder. "Look at us, the three Tudor men discussing the fate of Europe. This is truly wonderful."

"I agree," my father nodded, leaning forward again. "I shall send emissaries and gifts right away. We will approach this new king Louis and old king Ferdinand. Perhaps we can distract them long enough to halt their wars in Italy."

"I have heard rumor," Arthur admits, his eyes drifting to the fire. "The bonfire of the vanities, the disdain and infighting over the Pope, the warlike imaginings of his son, Cardinal Cesare Borgia, and the all-out war between France and Spain over Naples and Milan frightens me. If such violence can splinter the very foundations of our faith, what is to stop it from spreading to England?"

"The two of you," my father replies, as if it were obvious to both of us. We exchange looks and hear my father breathe a slight sigh of laughter. "Do you not see? One son King, one son Archbishop… together you will control all of England. Peace, I believe, will be maintained so long as your love one another. Surely, that cannot be hard?"

"Not at all," Arthur smiles, placing a hand over my shoulders. "Just today Harry and I were riding out laughing and talking. Though I have not seen him since he was fresh out of the crib, I still missed and loved him. He is, after all, my baby brother."

"My uncle Jasper spoke about his brother often," my father remarked, his voice distant as if summoning the memories from the past. "His elder brother Edmund, my father, loved him like no other. I never had brothers or sisters, family to grow up with. It was a hard time for me but seeing the love that my sons share makes me think of my father and uncle. Times spent, joys shared…"

"I would do anything to protect my little brother, to protect our Tudor dynasty," Arthur assured, ruffling my hair with his fingers. "And Harry here is most loyal and honest. He won't be much competition at card playing but he will be a crucial player in my court."

"I am loyal," I say, nudging him playfully. "And lying is a sin. I would never lie to myself or my family, no matter what the advantage."

"You sound like your grandmother," my father laughs, playfully ruffling my hair as well. "My boys," he sighs, pulling us both into his arms, our chins resting on his shoulders. We could hear him breathe, the heaving of his slim but toned chest pressing us as his arms tightened. "Of all my great deeds, you two are my greatest. Don't forget that." We hold each other for a moment before my brother places a hand on my father's head, kissing his temple.

"You are our father, the most wonderful and powerful man in the world," Arthur assures, his eyes much like my fathers, twinkling and dark. "We will always remember." My father only smiled down at us, kissing our foreheads gently before loosening his grip. He then lets us go, stood up, and strode from the room, a nod in our general direction as he fixed the elaborate Crown Royale on top of his head.

After a few moments Arthur turned to me, his face somewhat faded and the smile that was once on it gone. He looked about to make sure no one was close enough to hear and then spoke in a low tone. "Father frightens me sometimes," he admits, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin. "But only because he seems not to know us that well."

"Perhaps that can change," I say, looking over toward the door he just left through. "Perhaps father would enjoy a hunting trip with the two of us. We can go out for a night and enjoy some real time with one another. Father, I believe, would come to know us then."

"If he had the time," Arthur sighed, standing up as well. "He is king, bound to maintain a vigilant watch over his kingdom and subjects. He doesn't have much time for sport and when he does, he dares not hide away from his lords. The crucial unspoken rule of being king Harry; always allow the nobles into your inner circle. Best to keep an eye on them and keep them loyal."

"I see no reason to play nice with them," I admit, shrugging my shoulders. "They are set below the king, therefore they should adhere to the king's rules and demands."

"You may be right," Arthur noted, offering for me to follow him back into the grand hall. "But history has shown you what happens when a monarch does as he pleases. I personally don't want to end up like poor old King Henry VI or disgraced Richard III."

The rest of the spring, summer, and fall slip by me so fast I can hardly believe it. I am finally seven years old and my brother, staying at court with us all spring and then joining us in the country for the summer, played with us every day. On hot days we'd all strip down to our linens and take a swim in the nearby stream or pond at Eltham. Or, for the whole month of August, father took us to Leeds, a castle set on two islands in the middle of a great lake. It was beautiful and we swam, drank, danced, hunted, and ate away the summer, the entire Tudor family.

I felt blessed to have my two sisters, my eldest brother, my mother and father, and grandmother all under the same roof to celebrate our family and our happiness. It was also nice to escape court life and, for just a few weeks, feel like a normal country family, busy with all sorts of simple tasks and jobs. Of course, as she promised, mother took me aside every day for two hours to teach me the basics of herbs. She taught me when to plant them, where they best grow, how to use the leaves, roots, stems, and flowers of the plants, and how to procure their oils and other compounds for medicines and ointments. Of course Margaret never paid attention. Mary, being barely three, wasn't able to understand but enjoyed the pretty flowers and dirt which she could toddle around in freely. The nanny had quite a runner on her hands.

After a lesson one day, when Margaret left to try on a new summer dress, did my mother pull me aside. "Come," she whispered, pulling me into the shed that was attached to the large storehouse behind the kitchens. She led me into the shed and shut the door behind me, a maid and a candle lit inside. There were two small windows in the shed but mother had hung some heavy linen over them and I turned to see, in the very dim light, a mirror. It wasn't too big but was propped on what looked like an artist's easel. A bench sat before it and she motioned for me to take a seat.

"I only wish to see if you are able to see things at will," she explains, seeing my frightened face. "I will be right here the whole time. I promise you Harry."

"It feels wrong," I say, looking about the small room. I could now smell that a bundle of sage had been lit, the maid walking around the room to fill it with hazy smoke. "I don't want to do this."

"Harry," she said, kneeling down. "You are afraid and I understand but the only reason you are afraid is because you don't know anything. The goddess is not here to harm you; she is here to guide you. She is here to help her mortal children in times of need. Please, just look into the mirror and tell me what you see."

"It is sin…"

"It is not sin," she said harshly, her eyes focused on mine. "Listen to me. Your grandmother has poisoned you against the old ways, calling it paganism and devil worship but that is far from truth. It is the reverence of nature, of the unexplained magic in this world, that we believe in. Why can there not be both father and mother? God and Goddess?"

"Thou shalt not have no other Gods before me," I repeated, refusing to look at the shiny surface of the mirror.

"Gods," she repeats, a smile on her face. "Not Goddesses."

"It is implied," I say, looking into my mother's eyes again. "I don't want this gift; I don't want these visions."

She places a hand on my shoulder, caressing my cheek with the other hand. "Harry," she sighs, seeing the panic and tears welling up in my eyes. "You are not cursed, this gift is not a bad thing, and I swear that you will not be harmed. God knows who we are, who our ancestor is, and still he brought us to the throne. How, my loving son, do you explain this?"

I could not explain this and though I thought long and hard on it I couldn't reply. She simply sighed when I remained silent, wiping my eyes and smiling down at me. "Come," she urged, stepping aside. "Just take a glimpse. I'll be right here and if it is too much, just call out to me."

I nodded and slowly, frightfully, I looked up at the mirror. I scared myself when I saw my reflection, sunken and sallow and I thought for sure I was having a vision already. But, when I looked harder it was only me, in my simple clothes and my face and hands speckled with dirt. I looked carefully, waiting for some vision or some window to appear but after five whole minutes of silence and staring, nothing came.

"I don't think it is working," I admit, looking up at my mother. "Did it take you this long?"

"Longer," she smiled. "I was raised in a royal household and was never able to freely practice my skills. I, for all the danger it brought, never believed in the goddess."

"I don't see the point," I said, glancing back at the mirror. "Magic is illegal anyway; if the church found out the royal family of England was practicing it…"

"They won't," she smiled, shaking her head. "The royal family has been practicing it since the reign of Henry V. My grandmother, Jacquetta, was the second wife of his brother after all."

"I just don't think I can control it," I sighed, staring into the mirror intently. "My visions just come, in dreams and randomly. I can't just see something at will."

"I only meant to test your vision," she smiled, shaking her head. "But perhaps we will try some other time?"

I nodded and was about to look away from the mirror when it became foggier and I realized that it wasn't just fog. No, the mirror was glazed with a thin layer of ice now, the image within it striking. Though the frame of the great mirror had iced over, within it stood the horrifying angel of death, her wings spread wide and smoldering over her head. In her hand was a crown and in the other appeared to be the handle of a sword. I looked closer, the image becoming more unclear as it faded. I realized, when the image had grown dark and the horrifying angel with red eyes disappeared, that it was not the handle of a sword. It was a cross, broken and charred that was clutched in the long fingers of the demonic angel. I flinched at the idea of her coming through the glass and pulling me in but the image was gone and my breath, coming in heaves, formed a slight fog as I exhaled.

Mother noticed immediately and came to my side, my brow white with horror, my eyes wide with disbelief. "Harry," came her voice, her warm hand taking my wrist. She nearly pulled back at the touch; I was cold as ice. "Harry!" she said, wrapping her shawl around me so that I would look at her.

"Mother," I whispered, my eyes still distant. "Mother, it was her again…"

"Shh…" she said, pulling me up off the stool before the unassuming mirror. "Come, let's warm ourselves in the sun."

"It was her though," I said, moving with her out of the small shed and into the blinding light of day. "The angel of death."

"And did she speak?" my mother asked, escorting me along the rows of herbs and boxes of flowers.

"No," I replied, my voice trembling. "She had a crown in one hand and a broken cross in the other. She watched me, looking right through me but I heard no voice."

"Be not afraid," my mother said, her hands rubbing my arms as we walked around the grove of trees and into the yard which sparkled with light. "Was there anything else?"

"What does it mean, mother?" I asked, my eyes wide now. "Am I to die?"

"Everyone is to die," she reminded me, moving to sit on a stone bench near the high trimmed garden walls. "But this vision, I do not think, is meant for you. I believe she tells of another's future."

"Have you seen it too?" I asked, looking up at her as I sat down.

"I have seen her," she smiles. "In many forms but this form, I have only seen once."

"When?" I asked, my eyes wide.

"Many years ago," she shuddered, her eyes distant as she recalled. "I was in sanctuary with my mother and my sisters. I saw her image in my mirror, her red flaming eyes speaking to me as the rain poured down outside. She also had a crown in her hand but the cross was a simple white rose, the rose of York."

"What did it mean?" I asked, still staring up at her fair face. The sun danced off her golden hair and pale brow to create a small halo, a beam of light surrounding her.

"I always believed, even then when the goddess had meant nothing to me, that this was the angel's way of telling me that my brother, the heir to the throne of York, was dead."

"Then I am to die," I said, my eyes wide. "The cross, the broken cross… it symbolizes my destiny in the church. I will die before I am able to fulfill my destiny. I will be gone before my brother has the chance to rule."

"No," my mother said, taking my shoulders in her hands. "This vision, Henry, is not for you. No, I believe that it symbolizes a greater loss, one that I have feared for years."

"Greater?" I ask, my eyes wide. "Greater than the loss of your son?" She could hear the tone of offense in my voice and shook her head, placing her palm on my cheek.

"Not like that," she sighed. Her face looked long and weary and I could see the hesitancy in her blue-gray eyes. "I mean, ever since your brother Arthur was born I've always known him to be a slight sickly boy. He never got the York vigor or the Tudor spirit and in you, I see a passionate mixture of both. I fear that, before he is able to be crowned and before he is able to produce an heir, my son Arthur will die."

"Do not think that mother," I urged, shaking my head, my hands coming together in prayer. "No, God has put us Tudor's on the throne for a reason."

"And I fear that the vengeance of the goddess, the curse spoken without care," she says distantly, her eyes looking off into the sky. She remained silent a moment, observing the beauty of the rolling clouds and the slowly moving sun. Then, as if she remembered I was there and where we were she sat up straight again, turning to me. "I never meant to hurt you or frighten you Harry. No, it has been some time since my gifts have stirred and I only meant to learn more. Unfortunately, I selfishly pressured my son into being my seer, my oracle. Please, forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive," I replied, my eyes low. "But Arthur is so healthy, so vibrant and smart. Surely he will become king."

"His health has improved," she replied, smiling slightly. "But perhaps I should urge your father more quickly into this marriage with Spain. Arthur needs an heir."

"I believe that this alliance with Spain is an ideal strategy," I suggested, trying to change the subject to happier things. The eyes of that demon still peered at me behind my lids and I wanted to do anything to banish her from my thoughts. "Arthur will get a grand marriage to the youngest, and most favorite, Spanish princess and Margaret will finally be a Queen in her own right, to the new King Louis of France. In so doing an intricate familial bond will sustain our three countries in peace. Rather clever…"

"As are you, my little rose," she smirked, ruffling my hair. "Clever and at such a young age. Tell me, how should you like to learn Greek and Italian?"

"I know little Italian," I replied, looking up at her. "But I have mastered French and Latin. Surely they cannot be so hard."

"Perhaps Spanish then? Considering the origin of your brother's bride?"

"I would enjoy it very much," I nodded, smiling up at her.

"My Harry," she cooed, pushing a lock of hair from my brow. "Come, let us go inside and get changed. Your father will be back from his hunting trip soon and I expect he'll want to eat yesterday's prize at dinner."


	7. February 21, 1499

February 21, 1499

Windsor Palace, London

I am no longer the youngest boy. After a joyous summer together, and sending Arthur back to Wales in the fall, winter came. Mother, before the summer was over and we left Leeds in August, announced that she was pregnant once again. Father was beyond happy, calling for a week of feasting and games before returning to London to announce the good news to the court.

The celebrations for Christmas were joyous and loud, the palace at Sheen coming back to life in new form, something I was quite sure would have taken longer. Richmond was taking shape and father was quite proud of the construction project when the workers went home for Christmas and New Year. However, on a cold frosty day in the middle of February, my younger brother Edmund was born. Mother and father lovingly named him after my father's father, Edmund Tudor and grandmother was awash with happiness. Finally, the Tudor's had their secure line of succession.

With three boys in his pocket, father could rest easier knowing he had the lineage to pass on the crown but mother, it seemed, had been struggling with this pregnancy. The earlier ones, myself and my siblings who passed and still lived, weren't easy but this pregnancy was difficult for her. She, being in her mid-thirties now, went into confinement earlier than expected and as if by God's hand, made it through the birthing in less than six hours.

When I was finally granted an audience, a painstaking three hours after Edmund's birth had been announced, I rushed into the room, my mother propped in bed on her pillows. Her face was pale but her cheeks were flushed as she cradled the little bundle in her arms. When she spotted me she smiled, nodding for me to come a little closer. I moved to the edge of her bed and she grinned, lowering her elbow so I could look into the wrinkly pink face of my little brother, Edmund.

I was instantly stunned when I saw his rosy cheeks and pale blonde hair. His eyes were closed but the second I reached out to touch his tiny fingers, they opened. I was caught by the deep blueness of them, the steel gray that framed the bright sky blue. It was amazing and when his tiny fist wrapped around my finger, I could feel his spirit, his soul, resonating with mine. I was positive mother felt it because she sobbed happily, my eyes wide at the site of this new royal baby.

"He is enchanting," I whispered, the maids around me cooing at how cute the scene was. "Truly beautiful is my little brother Edmund."

"Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset," she smiled at me, kissing the swaddling babe's forehead. "Your father has already named him and declared him. Is he not precious?"

"My brother," I said, smiling down at his little face, his blue eyes opening and closing as he drifts off into sleep. "I will protect you my baby brother and be by your side. We, like the brothers York, will rise high together and throw down our enemies and anyone who stands against Tudor."

"Careful," my mother whispered, looking about at the ladies who were giggling and smiling at my bold but squeaky words. "Vows are heard by _all_ my son." She then winked, kissing my cheek. "The goddess will see the history repeated if it is summoned," she breathed in my ear as she pulled away, her eyes intense as we both sit there, staring down at little Edmund.

"Blessed be the blood of the goddess," I heard her whisper over him before leaning back on her pillow, his soft pink body wiggling in her arms for comfort.

"May I stay in here mother, just tonight?" I asked, my eyes not leaving my brother's face. "I can sleep on a bench or at the foot of the bed."

"Would you not be more comfortable in your own chamber?" she asked, eyeing me.

"I would but I want to be close by," I admit, unsure why I feel such a need. "I don't want to leave my brother just yet."

"Then you may stay," she said, a flash in her eye that I was sure was for me. I knew, as well as she, that the goddess was speaking through me, recommending that I stay here with them overnight. For what, I couldn't guess but when I woke in the morning Edmund was happily cooing and eating as mother sat on her pillows, eating some food that had been brought from the kitchens. When she spotted me staring at her she smiled, offering me a piece of warm bread. I took it, sitting up at the edge of her bed, and looking about.

"He slept soundly?" I asked, seeing him latch on to his wet-nurse and suckle hungrily.

"All night," she responded, watching me. "Go, get my son his breakfast," she turned to the other maid in the room, who bowed and left swiftly. Only the wet-nurse, Edmund, mother, and I remained. Mother motioned for me to come closer, to let me taste something on her plate but when she popped the boiled egg in my mouth she whispered into my ear.

"Did you see something about Edmund?"

"No," I assured, smiling back at her with a mouth full of egg. "No, I just wanted to be near him. That is all."

She looked puzzled for a moment and her eyes softened, her mind obviously wandering to what that could mean. She then shrugged, offered me a piece of warm ham, and took a drink from her goblet of wine. She winced when I sprang up from the bed.

"I'm sorry," I said, bowing. "I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's quite alright," she said, shaking her head. "The pains of birth. Be thankful you never have to endure it my son."

Just then the maid came back in with a covered tray and sat it down on the table near the fire. I straightened my messy hair and lopsided jerkin and then sat down in front of the tray. On it were sausages, ham, eggs, bread, fruit pies, candied fruits, and a heaping tankard of milk. I began eating from the plate hungrily, the maid pouring milk from the tankard into a cup for me. My mother and I enjoyed our meal, occasionally talking about the what the weather had been like during her confinement. For the dead of winter, she didn't expect much but when I told her of the frozen river and the skaters on the river she laughed and nodded.

It was after we were done eating, and mother insisted on getting dressed, that I left her bedchamber. I didn't want to go far so I waited patiently, Bible in hand as I read to myself in her prescience chamber. It was when a page swung the door open and my father entered that I stood up and bowed low.

"Still here Harry?" my father asked, a smile on his face. "The servants said you'd spent the night in your mother's rooms. I remember when you were a toddler… you'd try and sneak away to your mother every chance you got. Tell me, how is my queen and son this morning?"

"Both well," I nodded. "Eating healthily and enjoying one another's company."

"Good good," he said, glancing toward the closed door of her bedchamber.

"Mother is changing," I say, bowing. "I was hoping to spend some more time with her today, if you would permit it?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Your grandmother has been on me about allowing you to enjoy more sport than prayer but at the birth of your new baby brother, I think it only fair you be present."

"Thank you," I said, bowing lower. Just then, the door to chamber opened and sitting on her newly made bed again, dressed in fine furs and silks, was my mother, her arms around baby Edmund as he slept in her arms. My father and I both bowed to her and entered, spending more time than be both cared to admit. It was only after mass did we realize we'd been there nearly two hours, watching Edmund sleep, wake, eat, and cry. Mother enjoyed our company and when grandmother and Margaret came strolling in, bowing before my mother and father, I dismissed myself, moving around them to the entrance of the room.

It was a magnificent sight though. My father, sitting next to my mother with an arm around her back and a hand caressing his new son's cheek. My mother, pink faced and smiling down at her new son also took my grandmother's hand, leaning over the opposite side to see her new grandson, a Tudor prince. Margaret, who had crawled from the end of the bed up to my mother's knees sat watching, entranced by baby Edmund just like I had been.

It was a truly beautiful site and if the court painter had been there, I'd have ordered him to quickly sketch the scene and frame it for all to remember. However, I made my way out of the chamber and down the gallery toward my own rooms. I needed to change out of my linens, use the stool chamber, and get down to business. Mother had promised me new lessons and I did have them. Along with Latin and French, which I had practically mastered, I also had Spanish and Greek. Mother hired the best tutor she could find, a lawyer and philosopher from London named Thomas More. He would come to the palace three times a week to teach me for two hours the Greek texts of Homer and Plato, of Aristotle and Ptolemy.

Today was no different. As soon as I had washed, changed, and ate my fill I grabbed my copy of _The Iliad_ by Homer and strolled down the gallery, making my way to the small annex where our lessons were held. There were many shelves of books and scrolls and in the room sat a single wooden desk, one chair on either side. More was dressed in his typical black and silver, his simple white feathered cap on his head. He took it off, bowed to me, and opened his copy of the text.

"Good morning my prince," he said, his youthful face and long nose lowered in reverence. "Congratulations on the healthy birth of your brother, Prince Edmund."

"Thank you Thomas," I said, waving at him. He stood straight now, some of his dark locks falling from under his hat over his temple. "Father will be arranging banquets and a tournament no doubt but today, I think we can proceed as usual."

"Very well," he said, nodding at me. "Tell me, did you finish the passages I assigned?"

"I did," I nodded, looking at the Greek text scrawled before me. "Tell me. Thomas, what make you of Hector's decision to face Achilles? Surely it would have been wiser to remain within the walls, to better serve his people?"

"Would it?" Thomas questioned, looking down at the text. "Would it have served his people if the greatest warrior in Troy denied the challenge from the Greek champion?"

"In the long run," I said, flipping to the next page. "Hector loses the great battle and now all that stands between the Greeks and victory are the great walls of Troy."

"Unbreakable walls," Thomas nodded. "Tell me, would you have done things differently, my prince?"

"I would have stayed within the walls," I said, looking up at him. "It was Achilles own stubbornness, and vanity, that withheld him from battle. It was the bravery he instilled in his cousin that lead to the unfortunate slaughter at Hector's hands. It was entirely Achilles fault. Hector should have remained within the walls."

"But what does this tell us, prince? What does this part of the epic tell us about humanity, about the human heart?"

I ponder this a moment and, to my astonishment, Thomas does not stop me nor correct my reply. "It tells us that the decisions we make affect others. It shows that the wheel of fortune continuously spins and that it is not only fate that determines the future. Hector knew what was to come of him the moment he saw the face of the young Patrocles. He knew that this would stir Achilles to action once more and that he, Hector, must endure his entire wrath."

"Powerful observation highness," he nods. "But what about humanity? What does this say about the most human capacity to love?"

"That it is powerful," I offered, looking from Thomas to the window of the small room. "It is able to shape the fate of millions like it did in Troy. If not for Achilles love of his cousin, Hector surely would have lived and Troy would not have fallen."

"So you've read ahead?" Thomas smirked. "What think you of Odysseus' great deception?"

"It was masterful, playing on the traditions and expectations of the culture around them," I nodded. "Odysseus is a great leader, tempered and wise. Nothing like the war-like Agamemnon or the religious King Priam."

"Would it stun you know that the remaining members of the royal house escaped Troy and, in time, founded the great Roman republic?" asked Thomas, a grin on his face. "Does that not strike you as fate, my prince?"

"It strikes me as a perfectly placed lie," I grinned. "For what else would give a city, once a province of Greece, more validity than the heritage of a great monarchy?"

"You have a skeptical mind, my prince," More said, bowing slightly. "Perhaps we have more in common that I realized."

"You have a humanist's mind," I said, referring to his great friend Erasmus who, when the snows melted, would travel from Paris to London to learn Greek and further his studies in theology and humanism.

"I have," he assured, bowing low. "But great prince, we are off topic. Tell me, since you have finished the book, what lesson you took from Homer's great epic?"

"Many lessons were learned," I say, nodding to him. "The great Roman writer Virgil and Marcus Aurelius modelled their works after the great poet. It is no wonder that Homer is considered the father of literature, of poetry." I paused now flipping through the small book's pages.

"Why so much grief for me?" I recited, the words from the book jumping out at me. "No man will hurl me down to death, against my fate. And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it, neither brave man nor coward I tell you- it's born with us the day we are brought into this world."

"Very good," Thomas said, clapping his hands together. "And what can we take from this, my prince? What fundamental truth does Homer offer us?"

"That you cannot escape what is destined to be," I said, remembering my mother's words and the face of that dark angel in the mirror. "You cannot run from who you are."

"Precisely!" he said, smiling wide. He then grabbed a book from his leather bag on the desk, offering for me to read the cover. "It is his second work, following the journey of Odysseus home from Troy to Ithaca."

The book was titled _The Odyssey_ , and I opened it quickly, scanning the words. "I will purchase myself a copy," I insisted, handing the old book back to Thomas. "If we do not already possess one somewhere within the library."

"I don't think you will," he smiles. "It is a famous work but newly translated and rewritten. A man in London sells copies of the original Greek text, bound and dispersed from Paris. If it please your majesty, I'd like to purchase a copy for you in honor of the birth of prince Edmund."

I only nodded, bowing my head to Thomas in thanks. "Now, how goes your writing, my Prince? When your mother came to me she insisted that you had a pension for learning, for history, philosophy, and theology. What think you of the happenings in Rome and Italy?"

"You mean the Borgia Pope?" I asked, glancing about to make sure the door was locked. This was something Thomas and I did every lesson. After mastering the text or the central idea of the text, we spoke of current events in Italy, of the tumultuous reign of this Spanish Pope whose own son was rumored to be murdered by his elder brother, Cardinal Cesare Borgia.

"Yes, it is rumored that Cesare was in France just this past spring to sanction the divorce of Louis XII from his wife. In exchange, the French king," Thomas snarled, his distaste for the French evident. "Has gifted Cesare the duchy of Valentinois, military support, and a marriage to a princess of Navarre."

"Valentino becomes a Duke and soon, a prince," I comment, thinking of the rising hostilities in Italy.

"Exactly," More comments, looking toward the door. "Louis has already married Anne of Brittany and it seems that the Pope has married his daughter, Lucrezia, to the Duke of Bisceglie, natural son of Alfonso II of Naples."

"He's playing for power this Spanish Pope," I smile, looking up at Thomas. "Tell me, what news of Cesare? What does he intend to do now?"

"It is known that he waged war on the Romagna this past summer," Thomas shrugs. "There are a number of things he _could_ do but the question is what will he do?"

"I think it obvious," I shrug, looking through the first page of _The Odyssey_. "I think he will use his father's recent alliance with France, and with Venice backing them with their navy, Duke Valentino will sweep through Italy this summer, conquering Milan for France and the Romagna for himself."

"You speak blasphemy," Thomas uttered, aghast at my suggestion. "The Romagna is made up of independent lordships that answer to the descendant of St. Peter and no one else. You could not legally subjugate the entirety of it under one temporal master. He tried last summer and failed. He would not dare tempt God again."

"It is what will happen," I nod. "Of what you have told me about Cesare Borgia, I believe one thing. He is a great military mind and fierce ruler. He will subjugate Italy one duchy and dukedom at a time until the entirety of that boot is seemingly under the Pope's control. He will then forge a dynasty of Italian kings, starting with Cesare himself; you will see Thomas. Like his namesake, Cesare will forever alter the face of Italy."

Thomas was quiet for a moment and then as if to make light the situation he laughed, waving his hand in the air. "Your majesty does consort with God if he knows so much at such a young age," he grins. "Your wisdom as overshadowed this young lawyer's wit."

"And what of DaVinci? I heard he still resides in Milan. What will happen to his great works?" I asked, the idea of such divine creations and inventions smashed under the heal of French troops making me sick.

"I know not," Thomas sighed, looking out the window. "Perhaps he will be untouched, perhaps he will escape, if he is smart, or perhaps he will die. It is hard to say."

"I would like to see his masterpiece," I confess, thinking of the newly finished, and rumored genius, of _The Last Supper_. This masterpiece was painted on the refectory wall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan and is rumored to be a truly holy representation.

"What a marvel it would be to behold," Thomas sighs, his eyes on the clouds outside the window as the snow fell. I knew Thomas for a very religious man, a true Catholic at heart and that he believed, more than anyone, that God was represented here, on earth, by the descendant of Saint Peter. He had a wondrous reverence for the divine and holy, for Italy and her masters of arts and philosophy.

"Tell me more of the world Thomas," I say, pulling his attention from his Tuscan thoughts.

"Of what in particular?" he asks, looking back at me with a smile.

"Tell me of this new continent, these lands to the west," I smile. "Surely a man such as you has an opinion on such a monumental discovery."

"Hardly a discovery," Thomas smirks. "I believe that these lands have been there for years, longer than we know." He lowers his voice now, looking about. "I've read that the great Nordic culture had spread there as long as a thousand years ago. That the great sea-warriors discovered it and a northwest passage to a great inland sea."

"Where do you hear this?" I asked, wholly entranced.

"Old texts here in England and in Paris," he nods. "My friend Erasmus of Rotterdam has done some work on this, just for the sake of conversation. We've been communicating our discoveries and between us, we've found multiple ancient French and Latin texts describing great raiders from the north spreading across the ocean and to the west long ago."

"The same raiders who once plagued the British Isles?" I ask, thinking of the old stories of Viking savagery and raids.

"Yes, those originating from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway," he smiled. "The very same my lord. We believe them to have been there long ago."

"But surely the discovery of the new continent by Columbus is fascinating as well? And what of this De Gama? They say he has discovered a way around the continent of Africa, to lands covered in lush forest and wild beasts. What say you of that?"

"It is fascinating to hear of the story," he admits. "Just last year he left Europe and is bound for the Cape. It is rumored that he has made it and stopped on the eastern coast of Africa."

"And then where did he go?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"He is determined to be the first European to sail to India," Thomas remarks. "He has sailed there and will surely sail on to China and the lands of Marco Polo."

"Such freedom," I say, smiling wide. "What a glorious adventure."

"It is also said that Columbus, on his third voyage last summer discovered a great continent in the south west, covered in jungle and full of large rivers and native tribes."

"Cabot left Bristol last year and hasn't been heard from since," I comment, thinking of the British explorer my father sanctioned.

"It is truly sad," Thomas remarks. "But the vast lands in the west are to be claimed by Spain. With all their resources, Spain will dominate Europe."

"And with the marriage of my brother to their princess, our relations will improve and perhaps our own expansion could occur," I suggest with a grin. "After all, my father, King Ferdinand, and King Louis are all smart and ambitious monarchs. Who's to say we could not conquer the world?"

"You speak of a treaty, of an agreement, which has never before been attempted," Thomas remarks, thinking on it. "A treaty between the three great powers in Europe would stabilize economy and stimulate trade but it would also create a rivalry unlike any other."

"A rivalry for land," I grin. "For I hear the new continent is vast and untamed."

Thomas and I spoke long into the afternoon and before either of us realized it, our ideas spread into possibilities. We talked of a grand society anchored in the new world, where a vast port and beautiful cities stood to bring European culture to such a wild land. We spoke of potential alliances, interesting scenarios of a Papal monarchy and what the world would be like if European monarchs conquered it all. We spoke of the spread of Christianity and the possibility of an entire world united behind one faith. We called it a utopian society but naturally, there were flaws. Before long it was all an elaborate scheme to create such a society away from poverty and sin, somewhere that everyone could be content. It was only when my page knocked on the door and entered did I realize that the clock has struck two.

"Oh," I said, standing up quickly. Thomas bowed to me as I did and so did the page.

"My lord, your requested for lunch," he said. "Your lady grandmother has been waiting."

"Thank you," I said, nodding at Thomas and dashing down the gallery. It was not wise to keep my grandmother waiting.


End file.
